


My Delorean Rides Warp 3.65

by sherifflauren



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Andorian Ale, Angst, Blow Jobs, Crash Landing, Facials, Homesickness, M/M, Mind Meld, Pining, Slow Build, Vulcan, non-con mind meld
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 21:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 76,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1443568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherifflauren/pseuds/sherifflauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pilot First Class Cosmonaut Kirk of the United Nations Aeronautics Division will be the first man to break warp speed. Or he was until, in some horrendously predictable sci-fi cliché, his shuttle is sucked through space and he crash lands on some grossly hot desert planet.</p><p> He should have named his shuttle the Delorean  because he’s not too sure this isn’t some future Earth post nuclear war, and those pointy eared dudes shouting gibberish at him had better be a mirage because if not they’re probably post apocalyptic cannibals.</p><p>Or, the one where Pilot James T. Kirk’s shuttle crash lands on Vulcan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1.	Pilot Cosmonaut James T. Kirk

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Keep Calm and Conceal Vulcans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/156299) by [lalazee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalazee/pseuds/lalazee). 



> Disclaimer: my science is bullshit.
> 
> INSPIRED BY THIS AWESOME FIC: KEEP CALM AND CONCEAL VULCANS

_I, the Inlander,_

_Am here with you for just a small space._

_I am almost afraid,_

_So long gone from the sea._

 

  1. _Pilot Cosmonaut James T. Kirk_



 

One deft hand grips his blue flight suit as the other zips the outer seam snugly shut. The abdominal zipper comes next; muscular arms flexing as they work their way through sleeves.   All purposeful motion stops while the body assesses its fit.

 He arches his neck left, and then right, which is followed by a loud _crack_!

_Too tight._

He decides the zipper is pulled up too high; he pulls it down several inches and then slightly up.

That same hand runs through cropped golden locks before he undertakes a wriggling of his shoulders, shaking them first up and then down, backwards and forewords, adjusting himself so that the jumper fits _just so_.

Regulation standard fleet issued boots complete the uniform, first the left, slipping smoothly on and next the right, which…well

“Godammit!” Jim flails as he begins to lose his balance while donning his boot. “It’s always the right one,” he mutters. Why does his right foot have to be ever so slightly larger than the left? He does a perfected sort of jig and coerces the boot onto his foot.

Jim wriggles his toes and nods approvingly down at his polished black feet.

He erects himself and runs his hands through his hair _again_ , (it’s become a sort of habit, a sort of nervous tic), and takes a look at himself in his mirror.

 _A Long look_.

Sharp eyes assess the image reflected back at him: the encompassing blue of the flight suit, its yellow pinstripes, and the oiled black of his boots.

His dog tags glean under the dim light of early dawn from where they rest on his sternum.

Jim’s eyes rake slowly from the floor up, taking in every detail. Lingering, for a moment on the badges that indicate him as ‘ _Pilot, First Class Cosmonaut’_ of the United Nations Aeronautics Division, and smirks.

“James T. Kirk, the first man to break the warp barrier.” He whispers. The glean off his dog tags are bright in his eyes, and he almost doesn’t believe it will happen , what if something goes wrong, _what if he fails_ , and before the tension rising in his gut can give way to nausea-

He strikes a pose.

Hands outstretched on a perched thigh, booty out, jaw tilted defiantly (he was going for seductive, but it came out more duck-faced).

“Dammed if I don’t make this suit look good!”

The sky is dark and the sun is overcast and a light misting of rain covers the windows to his flat as Jim slides a pair of aviators over the bridge of his nose. His jaw is locked and the line of his back tensed as he spares one long last look at the foggy skyline of San Francisco.

_Today’s a day as good as any._

The door to his apartment seals behind him.

\----

 

This is a big day for the AD (Aeronautics Division), actually it was a huge day, a momentous day, but Admiral Pike liked to be humble. Today, on this very ~~shitty~~ cloudy day in March, would mark Earth’s first successful shuttle warp.  

They, _the scientists, engineers, mechanics, military personnel, corporate funders_ , had spent years toiling to develop the warp core tech and the shuttle that would hold it. The engine could theoretically warp up to 1.365, but the AD was aiming for a lower, solid 0.98 this first time around. 

Future developments and discoveries all hinged on the success of the space flight, on the Enterprise successfully going into warp and on the skill of the man piloting it.

 Maneuvers had to be delicate and precise as the Enterprise slung shot around Jupiter or the shuttle would be trapped in the gas giants orbit.

And so, at 0630 Vice Admiral Christopher Pike had one pressing matter on his mind:

 _Where on Earth (_ literally _) was Jim?_

With the practiced calm of that comes with a slow simmering rage, Pike fillips open his comm and signals for Jim.

“Dammit Jim, Your twenty minutes late! The launch is in an hour, are you sun downing? Did you forget what day today is? Get your ass over here now!”

Pike spoke forcefully in the manner of a man that is man _far too used to this bullshit._

“Admiral, I got caught in traffic-“ Jims voice comes breathless through the comm.

“Traffic Jim? How do you even, It’s six in the’ morning,” Chris counters.

Jim continued on, “But I didn’t realize getting across town at this hour-“

_It was like he wasn’t even listening._

“You were supposed to stay at the base last night-“

 “and then I couldn’t even get my boot on-“

_As if he had no brain to  mouth filter._

 “Where the hell were you-“ 

 “I’ll be there in two minutes I swear-” 

 _Could Jim actually_ hear _the words Chris was forming with his mouth?_

“Jim, this is-“

“See you soon, bye!” The comm signal cut out with a _beep_! Admiral Pike glared down at his comm as if it had betrayed him.

_It’s like talking to a wall._

Sometimes he didn’t know why he put up with Jim Kirk.

Chris grumbled to himself and began pacing with his hands behind his back. Of course he knew why he put up with Jim Kirk, for all extensive purposes he was the most talented pilot in the fleet, he had a genius level IQ and natural talent for leadership and boundless energy that allowed him to throw himself into work for hours at end. But all that energy made him impulsive and at times he was… _irreverent._ Not one of his finer qualities where the Admiralty was concerned.

He knew that if Jim could just learn to control himself for more than five seconds…

“Admiral Pike, Where is that Pilot of yours?”

Chris winced, of all times to be caught with your metaphorical pants down.

“Admiral Komack, how are you this morning?” Pike purposefully evaded.

Komack’s level brow signified he wasn’t dissuaded. He glanced disdainfully at his watch, “Wasn’t Pilot Kirk supposed to report for duty twenty minutes ago?”

“I assure you Admiral, Kirk is on base, a minor malfunction of his flight suit has delayed him.” He gestured emptily with one hand while thinking of an alibi. “Something about him having the wrong sized boot…” Chris supplied.

 _Definitely_ _not_ the best evasion _._

Komack raised his hands and looked about him. “Oh really? If the matter is so pressing I believe Pilot Hendorff would gladly take his place in today’s launch.”

Chris frowned, “Excuse me _Admiral_ , but I really don’t believe-“

At that point is when Jim came crashing through the double doors to the observation wing they were currently posturing in, at…

Chris glanced at his comm for the time.

 _Huh_. Exactly two minutes after their call ended.

Jim stood there panting with a hand pressed tightly into his side, a cramp most likely, desperately trying to regain his breath and salute Komack at the same time.

“Admiral I’m sorry I’m late there was-“

Chris clasped Jim's shoulder and shook him _lightly, “_ I believe I’ve already informed the Admiral of the trouble with your footwear Jim,” he stated.

Jim gave him a look, “Ah yeah, Yes, a bit of a mix up with my boots.”

“Yes.” Chris said, nodding emphatically.

“Yes?” Jim echoed, mirroring the Admirals exaggerated nod.

Komack tapped his foot against the polished floor, he was a man that liked attention. “Well, now that we’ve established that you can tie your shoes Pilot Kirk, may I assume we can commence with the flight preparations?”

Even though he was some ten feet away it still felt like he was leering _down_ at Jim.

Jim snapped to attention fast enough to give Chris whiplash. “Aye Sir! Permission to continue as planned!”

Ok, it was times like this that made him _love_ Jim. The kid didn’t take shit from anybody

Chris threw in a halfhearted salute of his own and smiled at his colleague.

Admiral Komack leered a moment further before abruptly spinning on his heel.  “Granted,” he spoke and strode from the hall.

\----

 

_Earlier that morning…_

 

Bones was stripping off his dirty blue scrubs; he had just tossed the top into the laundry basket and was in the process of dropping his pants when a cacophony of knocking assaulted his door.

_Caught with his pants down._

“What in Tarnation!”

“BONES! Bones it’s me, open up!” Of course it was Jim. What the hell time was it anyway? He’d just gotten off his shift at the hospital, which meant it was around _very late o-clock._

Bones stomped over to the front door in his briefs and chimed Jim in. “Boy do you have any idea what time it is, don’t you have a shuttle launch you should be sleeping for?”

Jim was leaned casually against the door frame, arms crossed as it slid open. He gave Bones a once over before wolf whistling. “Jeeze Bones you didn’t have to get dressed up just for me. Tonight must be a special occasion.”

Bones arched his eyebrow up to the level of ‘not amused,’ but Jim saw right through it, he was fluent in the language of Bones’ arched brows.  And this one wasn’t so much, ‘not amused’ as it was ‘trying not to look amused.’

Jim smirked.

_‘Oh crap, he’s seen right through me.’_

 He clapped Bones hard on the shoulder. “Oh Bones you olde softy, you do the nicest things for me,” and sauntered past him into the flat.

Bones grumbled and turned to follow Jim,  _that kid will get into anything, like a dam toddler_ , shutting the door in his wake. “Yeah well, we both know that you’ve been waiting up for me all night, you’ve probably been bouncing on your heel for the past hour. ”

He followed Jim into the kitchen and watched as ducked behind the door of the fridge as he opened it.

_Screw pants, he wasn’t even going to bother._

“Which,” he continued after the lengthy pause,  “makes you my needy housewife.”

Jim’s head peeked out from behind the fridge door. “I would make a terrible housewife.”

Jim emerged from the fridge with a case of beer in one hand, and an opened bottle in the other. He nudged the door shut with his foot before handing the opened one to Bones.

Bones grinned and took a long swig from the bottle. “Aww darling, you’re so sweet to me.”

\---

 

And for the rest of the night (morning technically) they progressed through the entire case of beer while lounging on the couch giving emotional confessions like:

“Bones, Bones were FAMILY Bones, you’re more important than my brother, because you ARE my brother!” Which was spoken as Jim’s beer sloshed all over the upholstery in response to Jim’s erratic hand gestures.

“No, Jimmy boy You wouldn't make the worst Housewife, you’d make the best housewife!” In this instance both parties knew that the words ‘House wife’ actually stood for _partner, spouse, boyfriend._ The point was emphasized by Bones’ warm hand squeezing Jim’s thigh.

“But Bones if I die tomorrow who’s gonna be around for you to bitch at? No one else can read your eyebrows like I can!”

And this one was very poignant you see because Bones tossed his bottle onto the floor and Bones roughly ( _gently_ ) grabbed Jim’s shoulders and looked at him and replied, “You’re not gonna die.”

Jim’s eyes had started to water and his mouth had parted as if to speak but Bones squeezed harder as if to ground him.

When he spoke the low murmur of his voice was like a roar in Jim’s heart.

“You can’t die on me Jim.”

\---

 

As Jim sits through the final diagnostics and preparations for the shuttle launch he has time to reflect.

He glances sagely around the control room where dozens of white clad techs work furiously though calculations, analyzing the numbers that will be essential to the success of the flight. Most are intensely hunched over their consoles, eyes dancing across screens, backs arched in tension, this one guy is worrying a hole through his lip and a lot of them are sweating, which is just… _ehg_.

Jim is reassured to note that he is still the most attractive person in the room.

He stares down at his dog tags and takes in the smooth feel of the metal as he flips them over his fingers.

_James T. Kirk_

_Pilot First class Cosmonaut_

He lets them drop onto his chest and folds his arms in front of him.

Ok so Jim admits that he may have been late for the launch that morning, and that, yeah, that was completely unprofessional and unacceptable behavior for the Pilot who was going to break warp speed.  But in his defense, how was anyone supposed to keep a level head the night before they literally blasted off into space?

So yeah, Jim couldn’t sleep last night. He’d considered it, but then thought, ‘Why spend what is potentially my last night on Earth cozy in bed? I’d rather be with Bones.’

The _‘I can sleep when I’m dead’_ went without saying.

Maybe it was because of all the dreary rain and the ominous skyline, call it gut instinct, but he couldn’t figure out why he had such a bad feeling about today’s mission.

Possibly call it paranoia.

“Eugh!” Jim grunts and angrily unzips the front of his flight suit. “We about done guys? I’m itching to get behind the helm!”

Pike walked up to him and placed a reassuring hand between his shoulders. “Relax Jim, you’ll get your time in the Enterprise soon enough. They’re just about done here.”

His eyes narrowed, assessing. Jim ducked his head, he _knew_ that look.

“I’m fine.” he said

Pike’s hand lingered before dropping away. He stepped away, making a point of watching the technicians instead of Jim. It was his method of offering comfort via presence instead of contact. Jim appreciated the gesture.

Rationally, Jim knew the odds of mission success were in his favor. He was a genius (no need to be modest, it’s established fact) and yet he kept distorting the facts. As far as he was concerned it was pretty much 50/50 world history making success vs. beautiful explosive death in the milky way.

And it pissed him off to no end that he couldn’t get a handle on his nerves.

At least his particles would probably assimilate into the gravitational field surrounding Jupiter, he thought moodily; _most people just got their ashes thrown off a waterfall._

He tried to remove himself from the matter, think _Zen_ , possibly dissociate. He was not the sum of his fears, fears were the sum of his insecurities and what not.

Rubbish.

He was always going to be the neglected boy craving approval from authority figures. He knew, he knew, that the real fear was not dying, but the mission failing, not because of the shuttle exploding and what not, but because he fucked up. It made him sick, he didn’t want to let Pike down, he didn’t want to crawl back to Bones like that, _reeking of failure._

That’s why he had waited up for Bones all night. He’d needed something to distract him from all his pessimism

Obviously he knew that it was better to fly only slightly frazzled as opposed to absolutely and completely frazzled. And Bones was so good at that, so good to him. Even though half of what he said was bitching and complaints Jim got that it was really just his way of showing he cared and that most of it was clever dissembling.

Jim sighed and covered his eyes.

The best thing for him when he was whacked out of his mind with stress was to be with Bones. The guy knew how to order him around (drink this, take this, no don’t; do that!) in a way that just screamed, “I care about you, I don’t expect anything from you.”

And, Bones isn’t obligated to give him that, _they aren’t really family_ , a small voice in Jim’s heart says, you’ll never _really_ be family, but they are in all the ways it counts.

That, and Pike are pretty much the only things Jim’s got that are keeping him together.

Apparently Jim’s lost himself in his own thoughts because the sound of Pike’s voice startles him nearly off of his stool.

“What?”

“I said they’re ready, we can head to the launch bay.”

“Right, of course.” Jim says, his smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

_Fake it until you make it._

And yet, as Jim walked down the causeway, he finds himself awash with an eerie sense of calm. The sun has risen at this point and the glow from the early morning light pours through the large windows, yellow light dappling the white floor, blinding him as he turns a corner.

Pike's foot falls echo his own as they approach the launch bay and the Enterprise comes into view, cold steel in a sleek and beautiful array and Jim breathes in the cool morning air and thinks, “Well fuck it, if not today, then when?”

And he maintains this miraculous sense of calm, all through the ‘Good lucks!’ and Salutes and warming the engine up and sealing the shuttle and the calibrations, right up until the countdown hits four (and why that number is suddenly so ominous he has no idea) when he started to panic.

The blood is thundering in his ears and he squeezes his eyes shut, focusing in on, ‘ _Bones, Bones, Bones,_ ’ all the while breathing out, _‘three two one.’_

The warp core begins to thrum with energy and the signal echoes through his headset and hull.

But by the time the clock has reached zero Jim has reached a sense of resigned calm.

He feels distinctly _not of_ himself.

It is all happening to his body, to his suit, to his poly-leather flight gloves.

 “Green for Go Enterprise.”

It’s finally out of his hands, there is no backing out, and his entire being feels so much lighter.

 

“Punch it!”

 

\---

 

Jim begins to giggle to himself as he shoots past Mars. “In space, no one can hear you scream!” he cackles into the headset.

“Dammit Jim,” Pikes voice crackles through the headset, “Pay attention to what you’re doing!”

“Cut me some slack Pike we haven’t crashed yet!”

Jim can’t believe he let himself get so worked up earlier, once you get past the mortal fear, blasting off into space is fun as hell.

Admiral Komack’s voice cuts through their comm. “We would all prefer it if you kept your energies focused on the mission Pilot.”

“ _You can Keep you energies focused on my ass_ ” Jim grumbles as he adjusts the thrusters.

“What was that Pilot?”

“Must have been static.”

Holy shit, he can see Jupiter appearing on view on the vid screen. As of now it’s just a blinding orange speck in the black map of stars, but it’s the most beautiful thing Jim has ever seen.

And, Holy Shit, he begins to feel a wave of excitement vibrating through his skeleton (it could just be the warp core) because he might actually do this.

“ _We’re all made of star stuff.”_ He whispers.

“Pilot Kirk please prepare to enter ze coordinates for shuttling past Jupiter.” And that would be Chekov’s voice sounding over the comm.

A blip appears on his navigation console, but a quick diagnostic reports nothing amiss. Nevertheless, he redirects auxiliary power to all essential functions.

“Hey Chekov how are the systems looking from your end?”

Jim can feel a tingling in his nose. _‘Oh man of all times to get an itch._ ’

“Da. All systems nominal.”

Jupiter was coming into detail now. It’s orange hue was… well, _holy_ shit, that fucker was HUGE.

Enterprise begins to vibrate as Jim steers it into the edge of the planet’s orbit.

“Space, The Final Frontier!” Ok, he didn’t know where that one had come from, but that was just _classic_ ; definitely a quotable moment.

“Jim stop quoting things and stay on task,” Pike admonished again, sounding only the _slightest_ bit affectionate.

“You try controlling yourself when you’re straddling a warp core,” he quipped, adding in, “Sir!” after a moment’s thought.

“Lucky for you self control apparently wasn’t a prerequisite for this mission.” Admiral Komack pitched in.

 _Oof_.

Jim could just picture the smug look on Komack’s face.

His eyes narrow as he begins to maneuver the shuttle onto the right course. Under Jim’s practiced handling the Enterprise turned quickly into Jupiter’s orbit. The ship would use the orbits as a sort of catalyst into the warp drive, the shuttle would sling shot around Jupiter and if all things went accordingly, into warp, bringing him back to Earth in record time.

 “Begin to engage varp drive forty-five degrees past ze planets orbit.” Checkov chirped through the relay.

That little Russian prodigy was just too cute.

Jim’s mind was clear as he absently watched the systems align.

A silent minute passed.

 

“Engaging warp drive!”

 

The ship began to pick up speed.

“Pilot Kirk, need I remind you that all communications vill temporarily shut off during varp.”

“Confirmed.” He replied.

“Varp in less than sixty seconds!”

_‘Oh man this is just like an olde fashioned roller coaster, what if my guts get turned inside out? If Bones were here he’d be so pissed, he’d puke all over the cock pit.’_

Any second now.

 “Ok Jim, any last words before you go Darkside?” And that was Pike again.

This was it. The angle was perfect, the coils had heated, and minimum velocity had been reached

He giggled; (this next line was truly inspired). “These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise!”

 

 

 

She warped.

\---

 


	2. My Delorean rides warp 1.365

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What is this, Back to the Future?!”

_2\. “My Delorean rides warp 1.365”_

 

Jim could barley believe it, _Warp 0.98, Warp 1.0, Warp 1.3_ and climbing.

Everything was going flawlessly.

TWANG

Jim’s head spun so fast he nearly got whiplash. “What the fuck was that? Was that debris? Did I just get hit by fucking debris? You’ve got to be kidding me, how cliché is that?”

His hands raced over the console. Sensors started going crazy. Cabin pressure increasing, approaching maximum velocity, there was a leak in one of the hull plates.

Warp 2.0, and climbing

Jim’s heart was racing a mile a minute, it was about to liquefy in his chest. He cut powers to every system that wasn’t integral in making him not go, ‘BOOM!’

“Of all the cliché shit, I get hit by fucking debris, a goddamn pebble in space-“

The Enterprise jerked roughly, yet miraculously he was somehow still on course.

Warp 3.14159

 “Do you think this is a GAME?” Jim cried and furiously punched in the emergency stop sequence. By now he should at least be in range to send out an SOS beacon, he had to be somewhere between Jupiter and Mars,  and with any luck Mars colony would receive the beacon.

His brain worked furiously at calculating the odds that a ship would reach him before life support shut down.

“I should have named you the _Challenger,_ ” he groans while he attempts to steer Enterprise past an upcoming cluster of debris, “ or the _Titanic_ ,” Jim hisses through clenched teeth, hot angry tears streaming down his face.

Enterprise dodges most the debris (somehow) but it rocks after another impact, this one from the stern. Too late Jim realizes his mistake, by now he would be warping well off of his flight path.

“It’s Flight 19 in space!” He cries.

His console surges like a light show, blinking rapidly, all the while whirring madly.

Before it goes dark he glimpses the speed read out:

 _Warp_ -111°

_That’s not even possible._

There nothing he can do to restore control of the vessel. The console is fried, it was _never_ supposed to fly this fast.

One of the backup oxygen canisters has been compromised. Auxiliary systems are offline. Enterprise is heinously off course.

And the most horrendous thing of all is that the whole time the vid screen is intact. Jim is rapidly approaching his death and all the while he is transfixed by the swirling nexus of space.

The lights from the stars swirl faster and faster, and if he was epileptic he’s sure he’d be having a seizure. Something is screaming in his ears, that may actually be him, or it could be the engines, and he thinks, _Bones_ , one final time before the Enterprise gives one massive jerk, tips foreword and then…

  
Black.

 

\---

 ----

Jim’s fucking head hurts and he feels like puking. Everything is _still_ spinning, how has he not crashed yet?

“Bleech,” he groans as he opens his eyes, they take a while to focus, and it takes him even longer to process what he is seeing. Because, he _is_ seeing, the shuttle should be pitch black, all systems went down with the ship, but a bright orange light is pouring through the vid screen.

Which means he’s crash landed somewhere and the front of the Enterprise shattered and was blasted open and he is somehow _not_ dead?

“I’M IMMORTAL!” He cries and begins un-strapping himself from his chair.

“I’m not dead!” he shouts again, surging upwards to stand.

Jim lurches and nearly pukes all over himself. _‘Ok, so sudden movements are not a good idea right now.’_

A gloved hand steadies him while he fights off a wave of nausea and he shuts his eyes against the piercing orange light. He has photophobia something fierce right now and it’s looking more and more inevitable that the contents of his stomach will be making an appearance.

It takes him a minute to jimmy the hatch open, but he gets it, and even longer for him to carefully hoist himself out of the shuttle. The entire charade is really a battle between Jim and his esophagus.

When Jim manages to stand unaided he drops his helmet on the dusty sand and gapes. He’s crash landed into some desert wasteland, all before him is miles of orange sand. There are several strange green plants a couple yards off, but none that are remotely recognizable to him.

In the sky hangs a massive red sun.

It hits him then how fucking hot it is, he hadn’t realized he was sweating until he saw the sun. It’s a dry heat, piercing through his flight suit, making his fingers itch uncomfortably inside his leather gloves. Jim realizes that he is staring at it like a dammed fool as his eyes tear up. He peels off his gloves and chucks them onto the sand as he blinks and looks away.

Man his head hurts.

The horizon is a vast blur of wavering heat while Jim tries in vain to see any sign of shelter or civilization. He does nothing other than stare, blinking and breathing for a while.

He wonders at the planet’s (he suspects that’s what he has unceremoniously crashed into) population density. Mostly he’s wondering if this place, (he should name it) is _un_ inhabitable.

It occurs to him then to check his ox mask, vaguely recalling some of the canisters being compromised during the crash. He hopes the atmosphere is breathable because the supply he has is finite.

The black tubing branching from his face mask flops uselessly in his hand. “Huh.” The mask isn’t even connected to the ox canister.  _Well, that answers one question._

Jim whips off the mask and takes in a deep breath of the alien air he has apparently been breathing this entire time and promptly looses the battle with his esophagus.

He doubles over and pukes onto the orange sand, emptying the contents of his stomach.  Jim moans and begins dry heaving; the painful convulsions rocking through him last several minutes. 

When his GI tract is done torturing him he rolls onto his side, throwing one arm over his eyes. It takes a minute or so of calm breathing to right himself again. It feels like he got socked in the gut and his head is pounding like it does after a night of too much bourbon with Bones, but the nausea is gone.

“Jupiter’s Cock.” He rolls over and groans into the warm sand. Jim squirms uncomfortably in the damp jumpsuit, unzipping it down to his navel to vent out some of the sweat he’s mass producing. He wiggles his arms out of the jumper and lays prostrate on the warm earth, panting in the heat.

And _oh god_ , the scent of his puke is _wafting_ over him.

“Noooooo.”

Jim stands, hand on his hips, doing his best impersonation of a _Bones_ glare at the desert for a long minute. “Where the hell am I!”

It’s obviously not Jupiter, that’s a gas giant, and Jim doesn’t think this could be Mars either; the foliage doesn’t look very Martian. Also, his memory is foggy, and he may be concussed, but wasn’t he off course from Mars Colony? And why can he breathe the atmosphere?

A six legged neon yellow lizard creature emerges from the sand to his left and scurries past him; it dives fluidly into the sand and disappears.

Jim blinks.

Those do not exist on Mars Colony. Mars Colony does not have lizard… lizard things.

He raises his hands in bewilderment. “Is this Earth?”

Jim gasps.

He spins on heel and points a finger accusingly at the Enterprise. “It’s you! I knew I should have named you the Delorean!”

“What is this, Back to the Future?!”

He launches himself at the wreck, a swift left kick lands on the hull. “Enterprise my ass!” he accuses, “Titanic my ass!” he cries and kicks the hull again from his right. “AGH! DAMMIT!”

That last kick may have broken something.

Jim couldn’t decide to laugh or cry, ‘ _I’m in the future and my space shuttle is some sort of jacked up Delorean,_ ’ he settles on sort of flailing in place.

Where did all the sand come from? Is he in the Sahara? Why is the Sun red, what the fuck was that lizard asshole scurrying through the sand, some type of nuclear byproduct?

 “Where the fuck did all this sand come from, was there a nuclear war?”

For all he knows he could have crash landed on a non-habited part of the planet and whatever’s left of humanity could be many miles away.

Jim thinks that on one hand he is probably lucky, he thinks the mutated people of the future are supposed to be cannibalistic, a little Soylent Green meets Cormic McCarthy with their food supply. And Jim knows he looks delicious, _well not now maybe_ , he knows he’s sweating and flushed like a stuck pig.

The last communication he had with the base occurred just as he flew beyond Jupiter. Jim tries to imagine what it was like for them on their end, the team waiting through minutes of radio silence and Pike’s grim expression as he realized Jim wasn’t coming home. Komack must have been pleased with that turn of events, _the prick_. They would have at least gotten the warp signature readout (hopefully) confirming warp initiation. Chekov would have poured over the data; he would have run through all the variables. If there was a sign of the Enterprise the kid would have found it. They probably though he had lost control and warped _into_ Jupiter and Komack would have it all blamed on poor pilot training.

Unbidden he envisions a tiny windup toy car spinning out of control into a model Jupiter.

He giggles.

“Uhg.” Now is _so_ _not_ the time.

Poor pike was must have been devastated. Jim hopes his epic failure didn’t ruin his Admiral’s career. He can just see Komack sneering, “after all Chris, that pilot of yours was a bit green in the boots.”

And Bones, poor _lonely_ _Bones_ , Jim can’t-

He _can’t_ , not now.

All he can afford to focus on now is living, if long term survival is even possible here. Jim doubts it; he doesn’t think the lifestyle of a shriveled desert recluse will suit him.

What exactly does one eat here?

Lizards?

‘ _People’_ , Jim thinks grimly.

“In the desert there is no sign that says, ‘thou shalt not eat stones’.” He recites from memory.

The head ache has grown to encompass his temples and white noise is starting to drown out the overwhelming sound of _nothing_ in the desert.

A Kirk doesn’t believe in no-win scenarios, but what’s the point when everything you loved is so long gone? He feels melodramatic and weepy, especially when he thinks about Bones, and his eyes are tearing up. Jim presses his hands against his eyes, grounding himself, and screams. He can’t afford to go down that path, he can’t keep thinking about Bones and Pike.

‘ _Well Fuck this_ ,’ he thinks. _‘I’d rather die gallantly, a dehydrated corpse in blue and yellow cloth, lost in a sea of sand, than huddled lamely inside the crumpled hull of a ship.’_

Jim tries to think if there is anything worth salvaging from inside the wreck, but he’s having a hard time focusing around his headache and the white noise is so loud now is sounds like it’s coming from outside his head.

Actually it sounds a lot like shouting.

\----

At 1430 an unidentified shuttle entered Vulcan space mid warp. It did not respond to hails on any of the conceivable comm channels. It blazed past one of the western research posts, at approximately warp 3.65, and crash landed 16.25 kilometers inside the western Fer’at preserve. Long distance scans showed the site of impact to be uncontaminated, minimal damage to the immediate terrain was recorded. Data suggested no integral species and sub systems were harmed.  A small number of yellow Shatarr perished, however their population density was above optimal and several losses would not negatively impact.

Scans also detected vital signs from one life form of undocumented origin.  Protocol indicated that several organizations be contacted before official examination and contact with the life form could be undertaken. The interspecies delegation must be notified for an ambassador, the Vulcan Science Academy needed to be informed of all relevant data acquired, the chair of the Fer’at preserve would have to be apprised of the situation, a physician from the interplanetary medical exchange would be summoned, regional security commission must send a detail, and an approved interstellar craft repair and refit company must be called to inspect and dispose of the shuttlecraft as needed.

Locating and speaking with all relevant parties takes 0.96 hours. A conglomerate of professionals are assembled within two, they arrive at the site of impact in 2.6.

\----

Jim’s eyesight is nearly perfect, he is actively practicing denial over his occasional far sightedness, something he firmly believes he can overcome with sheer force of will and a healthy dose of denial, he refuses to get corrective surgery that would correct his _slight_ optical impediment (emphasis on _slight_ ), and he only occasionally gets headaches from trying to read signs or the subtitles off vid screens, but there is no doubt that the he is seeing people, as in a group, a crowd, an assembly of people steadily approaching over the relentless sand.

Their forms are still vague and un-detailed from where Jim is standing but there are people approaching, there is no mistaking it.

Jim’s heart is seized with a fit of palpations and his throat constricts.

They have to have seen him, it’s safe to assume that they are here for him, and he only has moments to decide what his course of action will be. Does he run or stay?

They could be cannibals, but he stands looking on.

They could be here to imprison him.

They could be post nuclear cannibalistic humanoids, and holy shit, they were closer now.

 He thinks about a leathery corpse lost under the heavy sun. Who is he kidding, he’s not running anywhere. Resolution brings him a small amount of peace and the tension he had been building drains from him, relaxing his spine. Jim stands casually, head titled, eyeing the approaching group, while rapidly running through possibilities.

  1.       They are in fact post apocalyptic cannibals who will capture him then eat him
  2.       This is some planet of the apes future where he will be put in a zoo and gawked at for the rest of his life
  3.       Gov’t quarantine, death in laboratory.
  4.       They are in fact aliens
  5.       These are in fact a highly evolved order of logical beings and readily assimilate Jiim Kirk into their society.
  6.       This isn’t Earth
  7.       He’s dead, or possibly comatose.



Jim’s money is on door number one.

But he _really_ hopes he’s wrong.

As they come into better focus he can see they all have dark hair, cropped short around their heads. Some are draped in flowing robes and others in close fitting attire.

Jim’s discounts option one; they all look too well tailored to be post apocalyptic cannibals.

They all have four limbs, two arms, two legs, and don’t appear to have any foreign appendages… though they could have tails.

_Theory two rises in standing._

Jim blinks and suddenly they are within range enough for his eyes to make out details, uplifted brows, highly arched, skin paler than his own, expressionless faces, pointed ears.

Well _that’s_ new.

Now he isn’t sure what they are, he wants to say mutants but their grooming suggests aliens. Maybe he has been transported to the land of the fae and these ~~men~~ beings are coming to present him to Oberon, Lord of the Realm.

No, that’s just ridiculous.

All of this presuming gets him nowhere but it brings Jim some small comfort.

The people are shouting things at him, signaling him with controlled hand gestures, but he can’t understand a word of what they are saying, it sort of sounds like Arabic and Chinese. Regardless they are only a few yards from where he is standing.

 “Fear is the mind killer,” he recites, “I will face my fear, it will pass through me. Fear is the mind killer, fear is the mind killer…”

His eyes narrow _infinitesimal_ ly.

Eight total, all as tall as him if not taller, of varying builds, dark eyes, glossy hair styled in (Jim is horrified) bowel cuts.

One especially looking snazzy dude draped in shining silver and purple with a Caesar hair-do salutes him. Jim assumes he’s saluting from the way he raises his hand and rests it mid air, palm open with his fingers spread wide in a V shape.

The salute is accompanied by something in gobbledygook. Jim isn’t sure how he is supposed to respond; they seem to be waiting on him for something. He glances at the other members of the group, noticing that some of them are waving what he assumes are scanners in his direction.

Jim raises his hand and mimics the salute.

Another wave of nausea rolls through him.

They appear vastly more civilized than Jim had originally hoped for. Possibly they will not eat, torture and or end him. _Theory five rises in standing._

Pimp-Caesar lowers his hand and replies with more gobbledygook. One of the three guys in plastic jumpsuits speaks some of his gibberish into a communicator. It is when he moves that Jim notices all three of them have black things strapped to their waists. There is a hushed exchange within the group. Jim fears what will happen when they grow tired of waiting on him.

Well shit, it looks like they expect him to answer this time.

Slowly, so as not to startle them, Jim brings his right hand upwards into a military salute. “Pilot Cosmonaut James Tiberius Kirk of the Shuttlecraft Enterprise envoy of the United National Aeronautics Division, Sirs.”

There is more murmuring among the group.  A female (he supposes) with lighter hair looks very encouraged after his speech. She and the leader communicate briefly over a silver thing in her hands, eyebrows are raised. Pimp Caesar begins to speak again, gesturing at himself and then broadly at the group and then around him.

Ok, Jim can sort of guess what he is trying to say, ‘I am Oberon, ruler of Avalon and all the third race,’ maybe, ‘I am Ruler of Krypton and all you see; kneel before Zod!’ or something like that.

Jim tries to make a gesture signifying that he can’t understand, he points to his ear and shakes his hand.

They seem to get the idea, communicating something to each other with a few words.

Jim notices a smaller dude, another female, in a yellow suit tapping things into a device.  She approaches him with her scanner outstretched and mutters some things in gibberish. He tries to look impassive.

 _‘Try to look like this happens every day,_ ’ Jim thinks.

She blinds him with a light from her scanner and satisfied, she rejoins her comrades.

Pimp Caesar turns and moves off.

The three guys in the heinous plastic jumpsuits break from the group, approaching him. He tracks them with his eyes but makes no move. They flank him and seem to give him the signal to follow after Pimp Caesar and his people.

Two remaining men of the group, who had until then escaped Jim’s focus, stayed behind. He briefly saw via the corner of his eye that they had a vast array of equipment with them as they strode onwards in the direction of the Enterprise. He did not look to see what for.

Mentally he highlights theory three on his list.

Jim rolls his shoulders and strides onward.

\---

 

 

 

He honestly wasn’t expecting the fucking hovercraft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Flight 19 consists of a group of fighter jets from the USA that disappeared over the Bermuda triangle during a training exercise in 1945.
> 
> The Space Shuttle Challenger disaster occurred on January 28, 1986, when Space Shuttle Challenger broke apart 73 seconds into its flight, leading to the deaths of its seven crew members.
> 
> Titanic: The unsinkable ship that hit an iceberg and broke in two.
> 
> Delorean: the time traveling car from the movie "Back to the future."
> 
> "Fear is the mind killer..." Quote is from Dune.


	3. Jetsam Kirk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “T’Mir I don’t like your friend. Her people skills are even worse than yours. "

_3\. “Jetsam Kirk?”_

 

A few yards from the hovercraft ( _Jesus-Shit_ they didn’t even have those back home) Jim’s vision began to fog and breathing (why hadn’t he noticed before) had become difficult. His head throbbed. Spots danced across his eyes and the world tilted as Jim tipped over. Lucky for him those guys in trash bags caught him and frog marched him to the hovercraft. Jim was desperately sorry that he missed the opportunity to crack a joke about it being full of eels, but he had spent the rest of the ride with his eyes shut trying to breathe. It was all sort of foggy until the cute little one got him into the med bay.

It was the med bay, and the increased oxygen supply, that made Jim realize that, ‘ _wow, I’m really not in Kansas anymore.’_

Because cannibals _don’t have_ med bays.

 

These are _aliens_.

\---

 _Fascinating_.  

Fascinating, the Vulcan’s of the survey party echoed one another. Not only was the life form alive, but it was a terranoid of an otherwise unknown origin.

 _Fascinating_.

The vessel the terranoid male had arrived in appeared to be a crude form of early warp technology. The odds of it having survived impact were in of themselves nigh improbable. The engineers who examined the shuttle collected data suggesting it was only capable of warp 1.365, and yet it was distinctly charted at warp 3.65 when it penetrated Vulcan space.  To say that the Vulcan science academy and related parties were…. _stimulated_ would be sufficient in explanation.

First contact with species was a rigid protocol ruled experience, taking years of delicate relations and research in preparation. It had never before happened in such a crude and sudden instance. Lorian, the ambassador who had made first contact with the terranoid male, was eager to learn of his species culture. The alien’s reaction to the survey party, his calm demeanor and the easy acquiescence to proceedings despite the obvious language barrier, strongly suggested prior experience with interspecies contact. Perhaps a meeting of delegates between their cultures lay in their future.

The communications specialist, T’Vora and Koss, the engineer leading the team analyzing the alien wreck, were working to discern the sensor logs and communications still intact within the alien wreck.  T’Vora, a tall and severe woman,  otherwise unparalleled in her field, planned to link data collected from the shuttle to the audio recordings collected during her brief contact with the pilot to aide in forming a UT specific to his language.

Initial scans by physician T’Mir of the interplanetary medical exchange, suggested that the alien pilot was in good health. Upon her initial field examination the male appeared to perspire in overabundance and a frequent squinting of the eyes that suggested photophobia coupled with asymmetrical swelling or the brow suggested a head injury. She theorized that his species was not equipped with a sophisticated means of thermoregulation, or perhaps his head injury had damaged it in the crash.  And yet, Vital signs appeared stable and the life form was emitting no outward signs of distress. Such data were suggestive of a remarkable resistance to external stressors unique to this particular species. The medical community had been appropriately notified and several physicians were being appointed to form a team to examine the terranoid male and compile all data. T’Mir took no secret pleasure at his being so compliant a patient, in fact…

\---

Actual and factual, literal and possibly figurative aliens; and they don’t look like something Riddley Scott made up, though they did appear on the scheme of _green_ , which, of all the dam things to have gotten right…

And they look so much like PEOPLE.

The tiny one in yellow, the female who is examining him in a way that would give Bones a run for his money, looks just like a human woman, with the slight difference of upward slanted brows and elf ears.

She injects him with something and he tries not to panic, it could be poison, it could dissolve his beautiful skin.

But neither happens as he notices the pain in his head receding.

Fucking Finally.

 _‘So are these the alien overlords of the future?’_ Jim thinks as she draws yet another vial of blood from his right arm.

 

So far he has been playing the part of the ‘cool and collected, well adjusted guy,’ but internally he is in shock. Honestly, he was not expecting _this_.

He had been predicting more torture, bloodshed, iron bars.

 _What_ has he been lead to believe about alien conquerors?

Certainly not top notch medical exams, what he suspected to be central air, and elf ears.

And _Don’t_ get him started on their Poker faces. (Seriously, all he’s seen them do is blink and occasionally raise an eyebrow.)

Jim is afraid of giving anything away, and by anything he means that literally and figuratively. He knows he is being paranoid and pessimistic but he doesn’t know what they are necessarily inspecting him for. He doesn’t know their culture, though calm and outwardly practical they could have xenophobic and hostile views to outsiders. This all could just be pomp and show for the _Pièce de résistance._

_‘I mean they might not be aliens, they could just be a future cult that’s just really into body augmentation.’_

_Jim tries not to cringe when the woman blinds him with her penlight again._

_But really, their lack of expression just seems_ _so alien_ _._

\---

T’Mir had argued for first rights to examine the terran before T’Vora passionately for 30.25 minutes before her request was granted. T’Vora had persisted in her belief that his health could not be adequately analyzed without the aid of verbal communication. T’Mir knew this to be a falsehood and liability, during the time it could take to formulate a UT her patient could suffer any form of distress. The first step in their proceedings was logically to establish a baseline with the pilot and to begin collecting data on vital signs and body systems. To even suggest that a being mere hours post collision should be allowed out of a med bay, an coming from a non medical professional, was asinine.

Of Course T’Mir was granted her request.

“Kirk” to which T’Mir was referring the pilot, after repeated gestures towards him and fervid repetitions, was as she initially suspected suffering from a post collision head injury.  After leading her patient into the academy’s med bay lighting and temperature controls had been adjusted to accommodate his needs.  Thermoregulation seemed to be based around a crude cycle of perspiration and vessel constriction, the water his species needed to survive was triple  that of a Vulcan. Vulcan’s atmosphere had decreased oxygen saturation in his blood and a tri ox compound would need to be formulated if he was expected to ambulate for any great length of time.

As it was, Kirk had nearly fainted during the journey from the shuttle to the hovercraft, though it was more likely due to a combination of dehydration and a low oxygen saturation. His species heart was located in the center of his chest and his heart rate was half that of a Vulcan.

Most fascinating was the red pigment his skin appeared to take on, a direct effect of his blood being iron based. Already the medical community was buzzing with the possibilities of an iron based blood type, it would react in ways unlike a Vulcan’s copper based blood would to toxins and chemicals.

And the neural scans! T’Mir had scarcely any time apart to analyze those but surely when she did…

\---

“Kirk, Jim Kirk.” Jim repeats for the eighth time while gesturing emphatically at himself.

His doctor looks at him askance, assessing him with her dark eyes.

Jim stares back, really aiming to hold her gaze and repeats for the ninth time, “Kirk, I’m Jim Kirk.”

She gives him a slight nod, “Jetsam Kirk.”

Jim resists the urge to throw up his hands and groan. “KIRK,” he commands.

“Kirk.” She slowly replies and then gestures delicately to herself, “T’Mir.”

‘ _Finally_.’ He was beginning to feel like an idiot.

So he had been planning on playing it cool but if they wanted to harm him they would have done it by now, and if they really wanted to hurt him it was going to happen anyway. He figured his best bet was to go along with everything, play the perfect (and stunningly handsome) human, give them what they wanted and try not to offend them somehow. If he appeared to be of no threat (and how could he be as one lone man bereft of resources with the apparent lack of ability to efficiently process their atmosphere) maybe he could get out of this alive.

So he would cooperate, and speak if need be, but he wasn’t volunteering information.

To surmise, Jim was practicing restraint.

 

 _Oh Lord_ , if Komack could see him now.

\---

_Meanwhile, at the site of impact:_

“Improbable,” said Koss, an overtly large Vulcan, his size making him almost unsuited for the more delicate intricacies of his profession.

Vorik, one of Koss’s interns, in possession of a more…s _ingular_ mind adjusted his grey robes and persisted. “We must consider that the terran’s flight path could have been purely accidental and his crash landing in Vulcan to be mere serendipity. No conclusive evidence-“

“Warp capable societies do not just crash serendipitously onto planets of similar standing prior to a first contact,” Koss interceded. The firmness of his tone _almost_ suggested irritation.

 “Yes, but how do we account for the unknowns?”

Koss looked down at his intern. “The unknowns will be accounted for in a logical matter. Your tendency toward explanations of a rather… fantastical nature, while giving you a unique edge above your peers in problem solving, will lead you to personal and professional embarrassment if you do not learn to curtail your passions.”

Vorik’s ears began to tinge green. 

“Furthermore, it is likely that the pilot’s shuttle was exploratory in nature, perhaps scanning for data when a special anomaly or a systems error caused him to lose control of his vessel. Rather than your serendipity, he scanned for the nearest M class planet and forced an emergency landing.”

“Your conclusions are logical as usual.” Vorik murmured while staring down at his data padd.

\---

“T’Mir” Jim says for the 80’th time, “I really wish you spoke English.”

T’Mir glances at him from where she sits, poured over her microscope examining his blood cells.

“See, right there, language barrier and I still know that you’re ignoring me.”

Jim’s been in the med bay for hours now, and the action’s pretty much calmed down. He’s been left to his own devices, though it’s _implied_ that he’s not to leave, and T’Mir and her staff have taken to ruthlessly analyzing his samples.

And Jim was so bored. He’d taken a nap, tried talking to them again, given up, and started working out.

“What’s up with your atmosphere, I’m exhausted after doing forty pushups,” Jim remarks as he rolls over to stretch his back.

There is some anomalous tittering occurring in the corner between two lab techs. He thinks maybe they are the ones looking at his skin cells.

“Oh yes, this basal cell is absolutely riveting!” He mocks while his head is between his knees, “ours do not come in this pigment!”

No response, tough crowd.

These people don’t seem to approve of talking too much; they look _so_ constrained when they do it.

They look constrained _all the time_ really.

Acting silent and thoughtful just wasn’t his thing. He wishes one of them would at least teach him a few words of Arabese, or…Martian?

He really hopes he wasn’t right about the faerie thing; the ears are totally throwing him off. I mean seriously _elf ears_ , and they weren’t even blonde.

“You really hire for personality around here, don’t’ ya T’Mir?” 

Maybe he should be glad to be blissfully ignorant of their conversation, but the unknown is what always does humans in at the end.

Jim needs to know _like burning_ so he keeps on talking to distract himself.

 “One, two, three…” He counts out, with one hand outstretched and the other wrapped around his ankle.

Though he’s probably making himself look like a damn fool ( _oh Bones_ ) twisting around talking to himself, he can’t bring himself to stop. He’s maxed out the time he can spend sitting pretty and being quiet.

 “At least I’m being constructive.”

Maybe they think he’s doing religious yoga.

Jim shifts into the scorpion position and all of his vertebrae give into the arch with a resounding CRACK!

“KIRK!”  T’Mir barks from her station. She looks the closest thing to alarmed Jim has seen yet on these aliens, _her bangs are ruffled_. The doctor rushes to his side and motions for him to lie still while an assistant inspects his spine for damage.

Really, as if he would break his spine _so_ easily.

“I’m Fine, I’m fine,” he soothes, “that’s totally normal.”

T’Mir and her minion begin tittering in their Arabese again, which is just _so_ expected.

The aliens urge him onto his back so that T’Mir and her tech, this scrawny looking fellow with a hooked nose, can examine his abdomen. Jim takes the opportunity to fold his arms under his head.

Jim rolls his eyes and gets comfortable.  “Hey guys we’ve really got to start working together on this. You can only find out so much without communicating with a primary source.”

Predictably he is ignored.

T’Mir begins palpating his abdomen, her gaze is focused and her short hair has escaped the hook of her ear and fallen into her face. “You know, the last time I had a woman bent over me like that…” Jim waggles his eye brows.

God, the isolation is killing him.

If he were alone it would be easier, but there are people right here and he can’t even speak to them, it’s infuriating. He’s going crazy!

Jim squints, _‘that could actually be their plan.’_

How does he know that this isn’t some sort of elaborate Stanford Prison experiment redux? What if they plan to monitor him as paranoia and isolation cause his mental facilities to deteriorate, and uncertainty drives him insane?

Jim swallows.

He assumes that he is being video recorded; if there was an alien in Bones’ med bay it would definitely be recorded. He imagines that there are aliens in Caesar robes looking constrained over him while taking notes.

If that’s the case well… well he’s really not dealing with this as well as he could.

“Shit. I need to get a hold of myself.”

But how can he stay convicted when there’s really no point, who is he fighting for? What’s his end game? There’s no one to go home to. All of his posturing and stoicism won’t be making anyone proud, not now.

Jim sets his jaw.

Maybe he should have tried learning meditation. He thinks in his situation it would be helpful to have some chi and find his center or whatever.

Ok so positives?

  1.       They don’t seen interested in eating him (currently)
  2.       Aliens are very clean people
  3.       Central air



But the negatives:

  1.       Don’t these people eat, Jim is starving
  2.       The tittering gobbledegook they use as language
  3.       Jim is imprisoned in a med bay



T’Mir and her tech have stopped prodding him. “Kirk,” she titters at him and he sort of gets that he’s free to move about again.

“Yeah I get it.” Jim replies and moves to stand. He ties his flight suit around his waist and moves over to one of the bio beds.

A lot of time after that is spent in silence. Jim feels foolish for attracting attention to himself. He had a plan and he doesn’t know why he’s having such a hard time sticking with it. Usually he’s the guy who chooses an action and just goes with it, that’s how he _avoids_ uncertainty, but right now it feels like he’s drowning in it.

He wanders the med bay feeling dejected, not really seeing or hearing anything.

T’Mir continues to titter and rush around with her feathered bangs and her yellow tunic in a way that reminds Jim of a canary.

The walls are white, the room is filled with static, and Jim has never felt so small.

\---

T’Vora stormed into the medbay holding the UT prototype triumphantly before her. And when I say stormed, I mean to say she strode purposefully with an air of professional confidence.

T’Mir looked up from her station, “It has taken you several hours longer than expected to complete your prototype T’Vora.”

The engineer raised both brows, looking down at the smaller woman. “Great work requires time.”

T’Mir was no longer looking at her; the arrangement of Kirk’s osteoclasts was more fascinating. “Kirk is a receptive study. You will find him quite cooperative.”

T’Vora quickly located the alien, who was sitting on a bio bed across the room. She did not glance at the physician as she strode past, with the prototype held before her like a treasure.

\---

“T’Mir I don’t like your friend. Her people skills are even worse than yours. Tell her to stop waving that thing in my face.”

The tall woman before him, draped in black with her dark hair upswept into a complicated knot, huffed and began tittering again.

Jim stared at T’Mir, pleading with her for some sort of aide.  She looked almost amused by her colleague’s frustration; if the way her brows had arched was any indication.

 He was beginning to see that the eyebrows were key, like the alien windows to the soul.

Meanwhile his antagonizer’s face was so vacant as to appear set in stone. Her eyebrows were, well maybe pissed? They appeared vehement. Had he pissed her off?

Anyway who was this ass who had stormed into the med bay like she owned it, waving her clicker or whatever in his face, and getting all pissed off over his not understanding her gibberish?

She could at least tell Jim her name.

“T’Vora,” T’Mir began tittering again, perhaps chastising her for her atrocious manners.

“Jetsam Kirk,” T’Mir spoke.

“Jim Kirk.”

“Kirk,” she said and gestured towards the tall woman, “T’Vora.”

Oh. Jim got the idea that he was supposed to humor her. _‘Play nice with my colleague Jim, she’s a bit daft.’_

“Jim Kirk,” T’Vora said slowly, holding out the clicker, “tar-tor i’.”

Jim blinked. He looked at her, at the black thing in her hand and back again. Was that some kind of recorder? He reached out to take it.

T’Vora pulled it away from him. She gestured between her mouth and the object. “Rai, ri, pra’la, variben!”

What was she interviewing him?

Jim threw his arms up and groaned. No wonder her people skills sucked ass, she was a reporter!

 “An Interview fine, Where am I, Planet of the apes? I’m Pilot Cosmonaut James T. Kirk of the United National Aeronautics division. I am a human of planet Earth, I come in peace and completely by accident. My favourite colour is yellow, I look stunning in stripes, you’re people skills suck, and what are you six foot four?”

T’Vora’s eyebrows shifted with pleasure, “pra’la, pra’la.” She urged.

Jim glowered. “Roses are red, Bones wears blue, the walls are white, screw you.”

The recorder _Binged_!

“Well,” He said, as he stood from where he had moodily panted himself on the tile floor, “I guess that means were finished here.”

T’Vora’s mouth twitched at Kirk’s retreating back.

“Success.”

“Yeah and my ass is a success…wait…” Jim froze.

 

 

“WHAT?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH HA What do you think of my Vulcan's so far? Be prepared for more Koss and Vorik in the future...hehehehe and Pimp Caesar.


	4. Inlander for a Small Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T’Vora appeared flummoxed. “Is that not archaic?”

 

 

_4\. Inlander For a Small Space_

“WHAT?”  Jim gaped.

 

He could have sworn that the alien had just spoken to him, _in English_. There was no way that was possible. And there was no way he had learned by emersion that quickly, Jim was good but he wasn’t _that_ good.

 _Bajeezus_.

T’Vora’s eye brows looked smug. 

On a side note:  Jim should probably lay back on the whole ‘ _personifying the eyebrows thing’_ but in his defense, he was trying to relate to stone faced aliens speaking gibberish. It was human to want to relate to other living things. And people did the same thing with their pets!

Example: Admiral Archer and his Prized Beagle.

…Though, in this instance James T. Kirk may be viewed as the pet, and if that were the case then this _entire_ shenanigan was really _really_ starting to remind him of Planet of the Apes, (only with benevolent alien overlords).

His eyes narrowed.  

Jim would not be a very good pet and he _certainly would not_ be wearing a collar.

“So…” he said. 

It occurred to him that they may have actually learned how to speak English, via use of their fancy alien technology, but Jim dismissed that idea immediately. Their communication skills were just _so_ horrible, there was no way.

‘ _Unless… they’re mind readers.’_

If Jim’s eyes narrowed any further they’d be closed.  

He locked eyes with T’Vora _. ‘What am I thinking right now?’_  He tried his hardest to beam that thought at her through sheer force of will.

“The calibration of the Universal Translator is complete.” T’Vora spoke.

Jim’s whole body sighed in relief. ‘ _Okay, so not mind readers.’_

Jim watched as the tall woman raised her left hand and saluted him, just like Pimp Caesar had done. “I am T’Vora,” she began, “configuring your particular language to the universal translator was my own personal project, however there are several terms that require clarification.” T’Vora did something with the device, “Please restate your full title and name, and the name of your language.”

‘ _Right….I should say something…’_ Any minute now he was going to speak.

T’Vora continued to star at him. After a time she checked the UT and shot T’Mir a look.

Jim seemed to have temporarily lost control of his nervous system.

“Kirk,” and that would be T’Mir finally chiming in, “Please comply with T’Vora’s request.” Her voice in English sounded unusually calming.

Jim’s lips started moving, reciting his title and rank as it had been drilled into him. “I’m James T. Kirk, Pilot Cosmonaut of the United National Aeronautics Division.”

Jim lowered the hand that he had subconsciously raised in salute.

‘Technically’ (and that’s with emphatic air quotations) he was unsure that they weren’t mutant humanoids of the future, but Jim was 99% sure that they were in fact _otherworldly_. And that meant he was speaking with aliens, _Aliens_ , in ENGLISH! Every movie he had ever seen had led him to believe aliens communicated by blinking lights or via telepathy. Heck, he had been assuming that most aliens _didn’t have mouths._

_‘Oh Man, I feel as badass as Will Smith in Independence Day.’_

T’Vora stared at him. “And your language is called?”

“English.”

“That will be sufficient.” T’Vora turned to T’Mir while her fingers nimbly flew over the UT. “I am now loading English onto the Universal Translator’s language bank. It should be made available in two point six minutes.”

Jim’s brain finally caught up with him. “Wait… T’Vora? The universal translator, it has the ability to translate between any languages?”Jim questioned, pointing at the UT.

T’Vora cocked her head. “Yes, of course, it would be redundant if it did not accomplish its purpose. Does your species not utilize similar technologies?”

 _‘your species?_ ’

Darwin’s Cravat! Her statement confirmed Jim’s suspicion, she was an alien, _these were_ aliens.  _James T. Kirk, the first human to make contact with an Alien species._ He could just imagine Bones grousing, “Overachiever!” It _almost_ overwhelmed him.

“My species…No.”

“Then how do your people communicate with other species during their explorations?”

Ah…. This is what Jim had been afraid of. He didn’t want to say too much that would give him away. He wanted to retain some sort of credibility with these aliens, especially ones who appeared so advanced (a universal translator Holy shit!) it made Jim feel like a Neanderthal in comparison.

So maybe… Jim racked his brain, what to say... He could tell the truth and admit to being from a less accomplished society, to having not the slightest clue as to what was going on, but Jim didn’t want to lose his advantage (which at this point was based solely upon what they didn’t know). If he only responded in half truths perhaps he could get by, T’Vora seemed to think he was sort of equal to her people. He could try to play it out, keep responding with vague answers while he gathered information…unless they were the sort of people who didn’t appreciate lying by omission.

Fuck it.

 He’d take the gamble. He needed more information.

\---

If Vulcan’s were capable of feeling excitement T’Mir would have so described the feeling that swept over her at the first understandable utterance from Kirk’s mouth. As it was, the feeling was one of professional anticipation.

She observed the exchange between T’Vora and her golden haired patient. And what a startling pigment, did all his species possess that?

“My people communicated with other societies by learning their language.”

 “Fascinating,” she whispered.

T’Vora appeared flummoxed. “Is that not archaic?”

“Compared to your UT, yes. However,” at this Kirk paused, “by immersing ourselves in alien cultures we build trust and learn not only the language but customs as well.”

T’Vora tilted her head in understanding, “I concede to your point however, it is not efficient. You may find your energies more sensibly managed.”

T’Mir looked to Kirk for his response.

Kirk did not reply for a moment, he seemed to be thinking again. T’Mir presumed him to be of a thoughtful nature. She noticed that his breathing had become shallower.

 _Curious_.

“My people felt it barbaric to consider efficiency while building relationships.”

T’Mir’s left brow lifted nearly to her hair line. Surely the communications expert would read his statement as insult.

She could grow fond of this one.

\---

Vorik was aware that his nature was more naïve than his colleagues, and indeed most of his people, but Vorik had always maintained that for true progress to be made, for there to be discovery, mindsets of varying degrees must exist. If all of Vulcan approached science the same way surely key facts and data would be overlooked entirely. 

If Koss had desired another intern, he would have chosen duly. Thus, Vorik felt it was only logical he continue to be true to his, “fantastical nature,” as Koss would say.

Thus, Vorik felt it fully within his right to expound upon his theories _vibrantly_ and _often_.

 

“I’ve run through the data twenty five times consecutively instructor; the alien’s vessel attempted no communications after warp. Even an Orion trade ship would have attempted communications after a warp core failure. It does not follow that a species familiar with this part of the galaxy would not possess the least rudimentary distress frequencies!”

Koss bowed his head into his steepled fingers. He had discovered after a time that this action helped to relieve some of the pressure that built within his skull during one of Vorik’s passionate tirades.

 

“-Furthermore, can it not be concluded that a being bereft of such vital information is not from this area of the galaxy, perhaps not even this galaxy-”

 

Statistically the ends to his intern’s ramblings yielded positive results. Koss found it more efficient to hear them out than to intercede.

 

His padd chimed, indicating a new message. He unlocked it, realizing the message may be pertinent to their investigation.

 

Excellent. The aliens language, “ _English_ ,” had been formatted to the UT.

 

“-crash landing, coupled with the lack of data,  I conclude that his arrival on Vulcan was accidental, purely-”

 

“Serendipity, yes.” Koss cut his student off with a wave of his hand.

 

“Fortunately you will have the opportunity to test your hypothesis.”

 

Vorik blinked at him and pushed a strand of his shoulder length hair behind a pointed ear.

 

 _Ah_. Rendered speechless at last.

 

“ T’Vora has finished her with the UT. In several hours we will speech first had with the pilot. I suggest you take that time to arrange your data accordingly.”

Vorik nervously pulled on his sleeves, a habit of his when undertaking a new project. “Yes, I will begin so immediately.”

And that was why he had chosen Vorik over his peers, when not submerged in one of his whimsical hypotheses his boundless energy enabled him to fully focus on the tasks before him.

 

He need only be taught focus. The task was daunting. But Koss was the top engineer of his field.

 

He did not baulk.

 

“And Vorik,” the intern froze above his padd, “refrain from rambling during our interview.”

 

Vorik’s long hair hid his face, but his ears had turned green.

\-----

Jim was glad when T’Vora glided out of the medbay. Though he could hardly see how someone could glide with such large stick shoved so far up their ass.

T’Mir had seen her out and now turned to him with a smile in her eyes (though none on her mouth). “Kirk, if you would allow I would like to conduct a medical interview. Scans are never as thorough as a patient’s testimony.”

Jim acquiesced and again allowed himself to be led to a side room, an office much like the one Bones kept at the hospital, though there probably wasn’t Bourbon hidden in the recesses of T’Mir’s desk.

Jim sat himself stiffly in a chair and T’Mir perched elegantly on the edge of hers.

“To begin, what do you call your species?”

Jim balked. She didn’t know? Did that mean there were no humans left? If they had conquered Earth they would at least remember the species they eradicated. Which meant… the alien’s must have colonized Earth after their extinction. Maybe there had been a nuclear war! _Uhg_.

“Human in layman’s terms, scientifically Homo Sapiens Sapiens.”

T’Mir began taking notes on her padd. A long silence followed as she became absorbed in her work.

Jim sighed derisively.

T’Mir inclined her head, “Your mind weights heavily?”

Sweet Jesus, he hadn’t been expecting a response!

“T’Mir,” he paused for effect.

Jim leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the arm. He crossed his ankles. “We cannot communicate without proper introductions.”

T’Mir blinked.

“I see.” She straightened herself further (how did they do that) and folded her hands neatly on the desk. “I am T’Mir, a Vulcan from the province of Gol and a physician of the interplanetary medical exchange.”

“Are you the CMO?”

“C M O? Please clarify.”

“The chief medical officer.”

“In this instance yes. I will be the physician in charge of managing your care.”

 “And as you now know I Jim Kirk, a human and pilot of the U.N.A.D…”

Jim paused.

T’Mir waited.

Her patient’s skeletal muscles tensed and shifted as he molded himself further into his seat. It was his fourth posture change since seating himself. Such movements were utterly non Vulcan; he seemed to be in constant motion even while sitting still.

 “Do you wish to inquire something?”

“Obviously you will be asking many things of me, and you and your colleagues have taken many scans of my person, yet not information has been offered in return, “ he gestured emptily, “Will I be appraised of my situation?”

Had her patient been lead to believe otherwise? T’Mir prevented herself from appearing alarmed.  “Naturally ambassador Lorian will confer with you once it has been deemed medically advisable.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed, assessing the truth of her statement. T’Mir knew that look; no Vulcan was a stranger to scrutiny. She held herself under his gaze.

 After a time Jim’s eyes softened.

“Alright.” He said.

T”Mir nodded towards him. “There are several key points we must discuss, your concussion for instance, and the curious arrangement of your cardiovascular system…”

\---

 _Holy Aphrodite,_ Jim was exhausted. He groaned under his blankets and pulled them over his head. A ‘ _few key points’_ had been T’Mir speech for a _few hours_ of questioning. She had begged for his _entire_ knowledge of human anatomy, his medical history, common species ailments and his _extensive_ list of allergens (to which _only_ _Bones_ knew the full extent).

He had finally begged off, pleading exhaustion and the feeble need for sleep, because apparently these aliens didn’t need sleep.

What had T’Mir said, four hours, _if_ , and not even every day? Jim was disgusted.

And don’t get him started on the food. T’Mir had run some sort of bio-scan to help her craft a diet plan or something ( _god_ Bones had been trying to do that to him _for years_ ) and then fed him rabbit food with glorified water.

Salad was salad no matter what colour it was.

He didn’t mind so much about the water, Jim loved water, he bathed in it, swam in it, he chugged it, but T’Mir’s bangs had ruffled when she calculated that his hydration requirement would be equivalent to three of theirs. Apparently even in a future ruled by alien overlords finding water in the desert was still an issue.

Actually the bathrooms didn’t even run with water, they used some sort of sonic cleaner.

Jim had eyed it skeptically when T’Mir had shown him how to use it.

If their toilets didn’t even use water Jim supposed he wouldn’t be getting much of it while he was here.

The aliens must be like cactuses, retaining water and rarely needing to drink.

_Maybe that’s why they were pointy and slightly green._

Anyway after talking about lungs, and thermoregulation and, yes those are my testicles, they hang there all the time, no _it’s not_ very logical, _we’ve been saying that for centuries_ ,  he had been ushered into a wing of the hospital/research facility (he was still unclear about which), to a sterile white room, with a bed and washroom of sorts.

There were no windows, he tried not to think about why, but was he ever happy for the bed.

He didn’t give a shit about anything but the bed.

Sure he had ‘slept’ while in the med bay, while he was still disoriented, but it didn’t feel like it; he was so exhausted.

The bed had looked so beautiful he’d wanted to cry.

He could still hear T’Mir’s voice clearly in his mind, _‘and what is lost through perspiration? Do all of your species have such an unusual hair pigment?’_ droning on and on.

Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah.

Jim groaned in the darkness and stretched himself out across the bed, he spread his arms open wide and caressed the sheet with his cheek.

\---

Lorian is caught adjusting his robes when Jim is lead into his office for his interview and debriefing the next day. Flustered, he smoothes his already smoothed hair.

Lorian greets him with his open handed salute, “Greetings on behalf of all Vulcan James T. Kirk.”

Jim takes one look at him and thinks, ‘ _no fucking way_ ,’ because the middle aged slightly pudgy man draped in purple standing before him is Pimp Caesar.

He returns the Ambassador’s salute the Standard way.

This has to be some sort of cosmic joke, ‘ _don’t laugh, don’t laugh,’_ he thinks, as he struggles to control himself before the Ambassador.

Ambassador Lorian equals Pimp Caesar; Pimp Caesar is their ambassador.

The irony.

Acting like a Vulcan was exhausting. Jim had to stand straighter, move less, and act border than he’d ever felt before. And it took _sooo_ much longer to respond to their many, many MANY questions.

But he was killing it, never before had such _fine_ acting been performed.

Jim holds himself still, pretending to look insightful and self important while he formulates a response. He nods slightly. “Greetings Ambassador, I am pleased that our second meeting finds us communing on more equal terms.”

 _Flawless_ line delivery.

Lorian seems pleased by his statement.  Well…the Ambassador’s face is stony and expressionless and really he looks as pleased as any statue can appear pleased about anything, But Jim is thinking optimistically today.

“I am sure we can both agree that our second meeting is altogether more comfortable than the first.”

Jim thinks back to the dry heat of the desert, with his vision swimming under the glaring sun and the way his head throbbed and has to agree.

“I admit, I found your climate to be troubling,” Jim replies dryly.

 _Oh Yeah_ , Jim had in it the bag.

The Ambassador gestures expansively, “It is one of the many things we shall discuss before interplanetary contact can be initiated between our two species. The exchange of information will be a rich experience for both our cultures.”

Wait… what? Interplanetary as in, ‘in the planet between two species?’ Didn’t this fool know his people were extinct by now? What the fuck, had he time traveled or not?

Jim chewed on his lip in a moment of weakness.

Ok, he was missing something here.

But how could he confess it without losing control of the situation, well, the _illusion_ of control in this case?

Who was he kidding, the cat was out of the bag, Jim officially had no idea what was going on and not the vaguest hint at what he was supposed to reply with. “Yes, I concur?” and then what? He would be expected to expand upon that and eventually they would realize oh shit, Jim is from Earth circa 2200 bce (or whatever) and not from a different planet or some distant continent filled with rebel humans.

_‘Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.’_

Jim refused to lose it in front of Pimp Caesar, that would be so lame. Bones would roll in his grave.

_‘Right. So, If you can’t think of a good lie…just tell a truth.’_

“Ambassador it appears you have been victim to a gross miscommunication.”

Lorian’s hands disappear inside his sleeves. “Oh?”

Jim breathes deeply, “I am obviously ill prepared for this,” he gestures figuratively around them, “in its entirety. I am foremost a pilot, not an explorer. Making contact with your people was not part of my mission; I was merely testing out our new engine. I’m ill suited for this,” he admits.

Lorian’s eye brows do a sort of dance across his forehead. “Forgive our excitement Jim Kirk, this is altogether an uncommon event.”

Wriggling their eyebrows, that was them showing excitement? Jim doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry. _‘If I laugh they’ll think I’m having a seizure.’_ He feels panicked. Oh god, was an excited Lorian good or bad right now?

Jim foregoes any sort of expression, holding himself still as he waits for Lorian to continue.

“However, one does not need to be a trained diplomat to serve as an emissary of their species.”

Was that a reassuring tone of voice? Had Lorian just attempted the Vulcan form of reassurance?

 _‘SAVED,’_ He was still in the game! Jim mentally fist pumped.

All of his tension drains out of him.

Jim is as cool as a cucumber, even his panicked confessions are Oscar worthy.

“Enough pleasantries,” Lorian gestures for them to be seated, “allow me to begin…”

“Of course.” Jim nods, nonchalantly as can be. He imagines violently stuffing that cat back into its bag.

“You are in the Vulcan system of the Alpha quadrant, Southern most of the galaxy, on the planet Vulcan. It is an M class planet, 87.863% desert in nature, there are five small seas, with average rainfall approximately  0.79 to 3.1 inches annually…”

 

The planet Vulcan? _Southern most_ of the galaxy? 

 

But Earth wasn’t….

So he hadn’t time traveled...

 

 

The Planet, _PLANET_ , Vulcan?

 

 

 

He had it in the bag all right…until he hit the floor, _with his face._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spock will be arriving at long last at the end of chapter 5.


	5. Kaiidth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Spock," Jim nodded approvingly, "rhymes with cock."

 

           

_5\. Kaiidth_

Imagine Jim’s reaction upon wakening again in the med bay with yet another head injury and T’Mir’s small face staring down at him.

Jim groans.

“T’Mir take that scanner off of me.”

What was it with MD’s and their scanners? He could never figure out where Bones kept stashing his, it was like he had extra pockets sewn into all of his clothes.

“Jim Kirk do you have a seizure disorder?”

Jim began hysterically laughing.

\---

Lorian was thankful for his freshly brewed tea as he sat in the ante chamber of Senva’s office at the Vulcan Science academy.  It was his favourite tea, though overtly strong, he found it had a paradoxical effect of soothing his nerves.  He was staring into the depths of his teacup when he became aware of a flurrying of robes approaching from the hall.

How characteristic of T’Mir to make such an entrance. Lorian did not have to look up from his tea to know that the CMO had just arrived. The ambassador nodded to her in greeting, taking in her bilious yellow robes, wrinkled and folded in disarray, and the ruffled state of her hair. Doubtfully she had found time for meditation since the arrival of Jim Kirk, owning to her state of unrest.

He said as much.

“My patient has been in and out of a critical state since his arrival, there has been no time for conveniences.” T’Mir snapped in response. She adjusted a large brown portfolio that rested on her hip.

“What is in the envelope?”

“My data padds of course, how else am I to present my findings to the academy representative?”

Lorian opened and closed his mouth. _Surely she could have consolidated them…._

T’Mir seemed to realize this at the same time he thought it. She adjusted the portfolio, holding it out of view, irrationally trying to hide her blunder.

“There was no time to consolidate, Kirk-”

At this point in time Senva, the representative to the Vulcan Science Academy, arrived. Lorian stood and bowed elegantly, and somehow T’Mir managed to do the same.

Senva was a thin man, pale with piercing eyes of the lighter variation. “Ambassador Lorian, Physician T’Mir,” he greeted, nodding to each, and ushered them inside his office.

Senva placed himself in his large chair and held each of them in his sight. “If you would present me with the data,” he said to T’Mir, holding out his hand expectantly.

T’Mir handed him the portfolio literally bulging with information.

Senva looked at the physician disapprovingly for a moment before holding out both his hands to take the portfolio from her.

T’Mir, to her credit, didn’t so much as flinch.

Lorian sipped his tea.

Once the portfolio had disappeared into the confines of his desk, Senva began to speak. “This meeting is merely regulatory in nature. The Earthling has already been cleared for integration by the academy. “

T’Mir raised an eyebrow.

“However, after learning of James Kirk’s episode, proceedings have been placed on hiatus, in deference to physician T’Mir’s _professional_ expertise.” Senva said in a Vulcan way that actually meant, _‘We had to stop everything because the professional screwed up, care to explain why?’_

T’Mir stiffened. “His species appears to be very sensitive to head trauma, it is possible that Jim Kirk was not entirely healed when I granted him medical clearance.”

 “I see. And how is he now? There was much blood when he fell,” the ambassador interjected.

He was running out of tea.

“Yes, he injured a highly vascular region, it appeared worse than it was,” T’Mir said to him and then returned her attention to Senva, “I would like to keep Jim Kirk over night. He has been…. _Hysterical_ since regaining consciousness. I need to run more tests.”

Lorian took another (his last) sip of his tea.

Senva continued to scrutinize his guests. “If there will be no further setbacks,” he looked pointedly at T’Mir, “then you may begin preparations for the Earthling in Shikahr; Varek will be his liaison.”

\---

Vulcan’s were very civilized, it was quite shocking. He wasn’t even being held indefinitely for questioning.

Why couldn’t Jim have ended up somewhere cool, _like John Carter_ , and be super jumping across Mars, fighting off the rebel armies? Instead there were meetings in offices and protocol and quality insurance. Life on Vulcan was just so…. _domestic_.

Blehhg

Plus there was that hot Martian princess in John Carter, if Jim had been there, on that Mars (not Mars colony _eew_ ) then he would at least have a sexy alien lover.

Pfft. Vulcan’s probably thought hospital corners and Math were sexy.

Take this guy in front of him, Varek, _his handler_. Great galaxy, Jim was like an abandoned kid in foster care, it felt like being seized by DCF. Anyway, the Vulcan looked like a total brony (see: total douchenozzle who dresses poorly), long hair, bespeckled, nervous.

Jim scrutinized him further.

Varek pulled at the collar of his robes.

“ehem. James Kirk as you now know, the Vulcan Science Academy has approved you for enculturation in one of our major cities, Shikahr. It is my responsibility to house you with a suitable resident…”

 _‘A Handler and a Watcher, Oh great.’_ Jim thought sarcastically.

Varek was still speaking, “…whom I will select based on your individual needs and highest probability of compatibility.”

Jim perked up at that. “Do I get to choose?”

Varek blinked. Vulcan’s seemed to do a lot of that when they were surprised, that and eyebrow rising, but Jim hadn’t seen him do that yet, surprisingly. Maybe his were paralyzed. “Uhh that it… I mean to say that is unusual but there is no regulation against you assisting in the process.

Jim jolted.

At that moment inspiration had punched Jim hard in the ass.

He arranged himself I his chair, his body language falsely open, in a way that said, “look at how casual I’m being, nothing to hide here, just try to call my bluff.”

“Do you have photos?”

“Ehh…?”

“Photos, images of the wat- residents?” Jim caught himself at the last moment.

“I have but a few recent images, I did not deem them important to the decision making process.” Varek’s unspoken question as to why they apparently were was obvious.

‘Great Scott,’ Jim thought, ‘this is like being set up by a dating agency. I feel like I’m going through OkCupid, but the logical Vulcan version, _So You seek Compatibility?’_

Jim took the Vulcan’s curiosity and reeled him in with it. “On Earth we judge social compatibility based on a person’s facial expression, and by the set of the facial musculature. We can judge a whole persons character within the few moments of meeting. We’ve found the accuracy to be very high-the exact number escapes me.”

“Intriguing,” Varek replied, sliding over a padd with a slide show of images on it. There were only five, and each had a profile logged with it, (the five other imageless profiles did not interest him).

If Bones were here he’d grouse, “Jimmy, stop thinking with your dick! What makes you want to get it up for those green blooded hobgoblins anyway?!”

But all Jim could focus on was, _Please let one of them be hot, statistically one of them has to be hot!_

Jim opened the image files and began to scroll through…

_‘Hot alien love hot alien lover hot alien lover, show me hot alien lover!’_

The first candidate was too olde.

The second candidate was too butch.

The third candidate was…stringy.

But the fourth candidate, and the fifth candidate…Jim squinted and brought their images closer to his face; they both looked like scary androids.

_Ok, but scary can sometimes be sexy, right?_

He scrolled down, looking at their professions for any indication of compatibility.

They read: MATH, QUALITY INSCURANCE.

Jim grimaced.

Maybe he would have better luck with the five faceless profiles?

…

 

Nope.

 

That’s what he got for thinking with his dick

All of these candidates sucked. Ok, maybe he was just being moody, but none of them sounded very interesting.  Jim wondered if he could just live with Lorian, the Ambassador looked like that kind of guy that would have bacchanalias.

But since he was Vulcan there would probably just be several tastefully arranged food platters.

Jim could live with that.

“Did you find compatibility with any of the candidates?” Asked Varek, who Jim had honestly had forgotten was even there.

Jim sighed, he needed a way to say, ‘They all suck, I have no idea who to choose,’ without actually saying it. 

Also he didn’t want to ask for help.

It was a matter of pride really.

He was getting really good at this, at playing cool and thoughtful interstellar space traveler, did that mean he was getting used to wearing this false persona? It made him feel delightfully devious to be outwardly sophisticated while internally he was all snark and fandom references. Jim squinted, he had a sudden thought of Admiral Komack secretly cooing at kittens and ducks behind closed doors.

Euuhhhhhg.

“I am not sure of which is the most promising, I would appreciate your input. Which would you suggest?”

Varek’s eyes lit up at Jim’s request, he adjusted his glasses and fiddled with the padd.

Jim’s eyes tracked it as Varek slid it toward him.

It showed… _Monsieur Quality Insurance._

Jim made a face that looked caught between a thought and a sneeze.

 _‘I guess I will just have to wing it,_ ’ he thought.

So much for his dream of a hot alien lover…

He glanced over the list of names: _T’Klass, T’Lan, Saavik, Suhur, Spock…._

“Spock.” Jim said aloud.

 _‘Rhymes with Cock.’_ He nodded approvingly.

\---

_Meanwhile…_

The meeting had _not_ gone as planned. None of the committee members would consider Vorik’s hypothesis, despite Koss’s rather avid assurances that they were _highly_ plausible.

It was infuriating.

He would have to meditate upon it later.

As it was they had made no progress toward understanding Cadet Kirk’s ship; it was constructed in a manner entirely unlike their own, which in of itself was not the obstacle, rather it was the illogical design and illogical (bordering on foolish) materials used (Uranium!!!) that had his engineering team working _hours_ on end.

Furthermore, the VSA had denied _any_ contact with Jim Kirk during his adjustment period. No interruptions were allowed outside of essential personal or unusual circumstances.

Unless they discovered Earth’s special coordinates or managed to repair the vessel (highly unlikely) it would be some weeks before Koss was granted an audience with James T. Kirk.

\---

Jim glanced at the dossier on _S'chn T'gai Spock_ while sitting in the backseat of a small hovercraft. The vehicle glided smoothly through the streets of Shikahr as he approached his new residence.

The buildings were all of similar sizes, small (efficient, practical…logical) lodgings, equally spaced, tidy sand gardens (with sparse cacti and shrubs).

 _Christ_ even the rocks looked pristine.

According to the paperwork Spock (there was no way he was pronouncing the rest of it) had a degree in Biology and experience with interspecies relations, making him a suitable candidate to acclimate Jim to Vulcan. Young, according to Vulcan years (yet older than Jim), Spock lived on his family property on the edge of Shikahr, where he preferred to work solely on his experiments, the results of which he reported to the VSA weekly.

It sounded like Spock was a total recluse, a child prodigy with no social life and a laboratory large enough to compensate for it.

Jim was picturing the Vulcan version of Chekov.

Or, _and this was his dick talking_ , he could be a super nerd, with totally repressed and kinky sexual fantasies of getting off with exotic charismatic aliens (such as Jim). He would be awkward, bumbling, sensually donning extraneous rubber gloves at opportune moments…

Jim chewed on his lip.

Now was not the time to be getting a hard on.

He tossed the dossier onto the seat next to him and pouted out the window, no with his luck Spock would just be a typical robo-Vulcan who spent his day working and adding to his list of _logical yet fascinating_ things, with no interest in forming a social, emotional, _or_ _physical_ attachment with Jim.

As the craft finally came to a half in front of a large geometric building on the outskirts of the desert Jim admitted to himself that the reason he was so fixated on his watcher being sexually attractive was because he doubted a Vulcan would be capable of forming any other sort of meaningful relationship with him.

And Jim got lonely, Hell, Jim was lonely _now_ , and scared and grieving, and confused and he had to do it _alone_. He needed someone to talk to, to confide in, to touch and ground him physically.

In Jim’s experience the one that people had been _willing_ to offer him had been the last.

His driver helped Jim from the hovercar and lead him beyond a gate and through a sand garden to the entrance. He bowed stiffly then left, leaving Jim to stare dumbly at the door with his dossier hanging uselessly from his hand.

The bastard could have at least showed him where the doorbell was.

Jim raised his free hand to knock on the blue door when he heard a soft click as it began to swing open.

\---

Jim was staring.

The Vulcan was staring.

Jim blinked.

The Vulcan raised a thick eyebrow in return.

“Cadet James T. Kirk I presume?”

“Call me Jim,” he responded out of habit.

Full lips pursed in response.

“I am Spock,” the Vulcan responded and stepped aside, waving an arm attached to nicely muscled bicep to welcome Jim into his home.

 

 

 

 Jackpot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm such an ass! The next chapter is entirely Spock POV


	6. There is no Lack of Water Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Spock," Jim asks between mouthfuls of...grain? "Did Vulcan's evolve from cacti?"

 

6\. There is no Lack of Water Here

 

Life for Spock was much like the average Vulcan’s, it was ordered, practical, and fulfilling. 

Spock awoke at sunrise and completed a set of stretches, he bathed, ingested a proper morning meal, and allowed himself a unit of time to sit with his tea and enjoy the serenity of the desert mornings in his sand garden. He would then work in his laboratory, testing his hypotheses and experiments for several hours. Spock would take a break for an afternoon meal and play his lute while he digested, then he would retire to his lab for several hours more. He would break for dinner; take a post evening walk and return to write up his reports, in time to submit them late in the evening. His day would end after several hours of meditation and two to three hours of sleep as needed.

All in all, a standard Vulcan day and routine.

He would need to adjust his schedule to accommodate his alien guest.

Spock was not entirely clear on why he had volunteered himself to acclimate Jim Kirk. He had always been solitary, liked to work alone, lived alone, and did not like the trivialities and snubbness that interaction with other Vulcans brought.

However, first contact with an alien species, first hand interaction with a being of _entirely foreign_ origins had intrigued Spock so much he had figuratively jumped upon the opportunity first hand. He had a strong professional interest as a biologist to study their species differences but also after growing up in his father’s shadow, accompanying him on ambassadorial missions, Spock had a nostalgic urge for….to interact with a being from a culture entirely non Vulcan.

He could admit, thought not publicly, he had grown tired of Vulcan tradition and customs, after years of diplomatic missions his tolerance had grown thin. Perhaps it was how he had been exposed to so many cultures, or perhaps it was because he had not been raised strictly Vulcan, but Spock had a sort of…. to put it simply he lacked control.

Before moving his laboratory to his home he had often found it necessary to return early from his work and meditate for vast lengths of time due to overwhelming urges he had to hit his colleagues in the face, _forcefully_.

Perhaps he should have been an ambassador like his father, but that had not been his passion, and Spock could not differentiate if his _urges_ were from an inherent lack of control or the circumstances of his upbringing.

And don’t get him started on Sybok.

Spock had been astounded when he learned that he had been chosen to host the Earthling, he had expected Varek to discount his candidacy due to his rather reclusive habits. Nonetheless, he had been in a sort of frenzy while preparing for Jim Kirk’s arrival. He had been granted several days of leave to acclimate his guest and to prepare the household and to study the data collected thus far.

Spock knew to open the door when he did because he had been restlessly loitering in the foyer to his home prior to James Kirk’s arrival.

He had moved swiftly to open the door after chatter from the other side. And, he had of course seen images of the Cadet while surveying his data but they did not do him justice.

The door moves to reveal one of the most striking beings Spock has laid eyes on. Golden hair, shocking blue eyes, plush lips, tanned skin.

Spock watched the muscles of Jim’s face contort into an expression he believed was shock?

“Cadet James T. Kirk I presume?”

Cadet Kirk blinked rapidly three times in concession. “Call me Jim,” he replied.

As he would not normally feel comfortable referring to another being by what he concludes must be a nickname, one that denotes a familiar relationship, Spock does not protest. James- _Jim_ , is in a unique situation, one in which referring to him by a nickname may facilitate his acclamation.

 “I am Spock.”  He says, and steps aside, welcoming Jim into his home.

\-----

James Kirk is alarmed by his bathroom.

He stays with him at length explaining and practicing use of its facilities with him. Spock had anticipated this, Kirk not understanding simple conveniences of Vulcan society, but to not know how to work the bathroom…

 _Well_ …

Spock gives his guest a tour of his home, empty but for them now that his father has accepted a long term diplomatic position and since Sybok took up residence with his radicals.

Spock is not sure is he will find Cadet Kirk’s company gratifying, he is used to the solitude of his household, perhaps _too_ accustomed to it in truth.

Spock catches the way that Kirk’s eyes dart each time he is shown a new room or object. He turns his whole body toward each point of interest, giving each subject his full attention. The muscles around his eyes tighten and his lips purse or become caught between his teeth each time new subject is explained/introduced.  Spock can see that he is analyzing what Spock is showing him, turning it over the new information in his mind and assessing carefully. 

James Kirk is…expressive.

\---

So Spock was pretty cool, and his house was pretty cool… but now that he was here Jim was so bored. The house was spacious and geometric and he had been given his own rooms, chambers? To bath and sleep and meditate in, that was a big thing for Vulcans, but Jim was thinking of using his to work out.

Because _Holy Aphrodite_ , the atmosphere here was heavy.

Jim thought he had fainted after the crash from _lack of air_. Spock had explained to him that on Earth he’d be something like he-man or the she hulk, super jacked and flipping cars (ok he hadn’t said any of that, what he had said was, “Vulcans are approximately three times physically stronger than Humans, which may be in part to our strong gravitational field,” so _whatever_ Jim was exaggerating. The point was, walking from the house across the yard had winded him and he was feeling like a wilted daisy. T’mir had prepared a daily tri-ox compound to compensate, however he would have to build muscle ye olde fashioned way. And so, like a prisoner with nothing better to do, Jim had resolved to become…athletic.

He was aiming to become the Adonis among Vulcans.

But seriously what else was Jim supposed to do? It really was like being in jail, he couldn’t really go out anywhere (yet dammit) and he didn’t have any way of contacting his people, no work no parties no people.

The only options left to him were athleticism and studying, because of course Spock had shown him his rather impressive home library, granted him full access only to them realize that oh hey, the alien is illiterate. Jim couldn’t speak Vulcan; he certainly wasn’t capable of reading it.

He’d glanced at it and turned away in horror, it looked like Cyrillic fused with Farsi. It was going to take a long time for him to learn it, and Jim did not want to be on Vulcan for that long. Spock had seemed sympathetic when he realized his mistake, “my apologies Jim Kirk, Vulcan can be a highly difficult language to learn.” His eyebrows had sort of pouted, well they had dipped.

Jim was no linguist but he would try.

Maybe he could take up a new hobby, like art, or music. There was a lyre in the library he could ask Spock about.

Jim groaned and buried his head under his pillow, how was anyone supposed to learn in a situation like his? Stress, confusion, high levels of anxiety, grief, probably a mixture of denial, those weren’t exactly conducive to higher learning.

Nope, he was just going to become buff instead. He would work out, release some endorphins, which would help with his mood, Bones would approve.

Jim could do this; he could acclimate to the house and the hot alien roommate. He would take his tri-ox compound and get used to the atmosphere until his blood adapted, he would wander around the grounds and get a tan and learn how to communicate properly with a Vulcan and ease his way into the whole Stranger in a Strange Land vibe that was his life now.

Maybe he would just need to shut down for a while, empty his mind and let his body adapt to the new planet. He could take this one step at a time.

\---

The next morning when Spock enters his, _their_ , kitchen for his breakfast meal he prepares double portions, one for himself and the other for Kirk. It is not until he has finished his meal and that he recalls humans require four hours on average more sleep than an adult Vulcan. By those standards Cadet Kirk will not awaken until far into his work day. He contemplates waking him to explain that the food is for him, or possibly delivering it to his quarters. However he decides against it, Spock suspects that would appear intrusive. Then he contemplates simply leaving a noted message for his guest, except James Kirk cannot read Vulcan.

He leaves the food out, presuming that Cadet Kirk will simply help himself when he desires it.

When Spock broke for his afternoon meal James Kirk was not in the kitchen as he had hoped. He was eager to learn more of his guest and could admit to some anticipation to greeting him on the first day of their cohabitation. The food he had left out had been at least picked through; only small portions of the fruit and bread were missing.

Spock debates playing his lute or going in search of Kirk, he does not want to appear intrusive, yet it seems prudent to check in on the Earthling to see how he is adjusting.

He goes to James Kirk’s chambers and knocks on the entrance. Before he can declare, “Cadet Kirk, it is Spock,” Jim shouts:

“Come in!”

Spock unseals the doorway and steps in to find James in a horizontal position, repetitively pushing himself off of the floor with his arms.

The human’s epidermis is releasing vast amounts of sweat.

He raises his eyebrow in question.

“I’m just working out,” James says, while lowering his body to the floor, and then erects himself to a sitting position. He wipes the sweat from his brow. “How are you?”

Spock does not know what he means by, ‘working out,’ working out the tension in his muscles perhaps?

“I see, I am functional.”

Spock notices that Cadet Kirk is dressed only in small formfitting shorts.

“I came to inquire how you found the morning meal, and if you had needs that I may help meet.”

“Umm, I liked the fruit and that dry grain?” Kirk answers.

Spock nods and waits for him to continue.

Kirk raises his eyebrow and looks back and forth rapidly, “I think I am fine for today, I’ll shower and bathe later.”

It goes like this for twenty eight days.

Each day after he takes his second meal Spock will approach James in his quarters, asking if he has any needs that must be met and how is he adjusting.

Each time the cadet is dressed in only his tight undershorts, which Spock learned the cadet wears under his clothes, which means that he is dressed in his _undergarments_. This is _highly_ unusual, and made Spock uncomfortable for several days while visiting. Vulcan would dress in an aerodynamic flexible and loose fiber to perform strenuous athletic activity. He would suggest such attire to his guest, except humans lose vast amounts of body fluid through such activity, which may result in the fabric becoming uncomfortable and heavy.

Spock makes a catalogue of the various positions and forms Kirk performs, and what muscle groups they are meant to target while working out.

On Day twenty nine James breaks routine and takes breakfast with Spock.

He is surprised to see the cadet make his way into the kitchen so early in the day. Kirk sits across from him and eats his usual meal of dry grains and fruit. His hair is disheveled and stands vertically at odd angles, his face is puffy and eyelids drooped and for half their time together he sits silently and consumes his meal.

“What’s the name of the instrument you play?”

Spock startles, he hadn’t known James had seen him play, “The Vulcan Lute.”

The next morning Kirk again breaks routine by sampling Plomeek soup. “Are there poisonous organisms in the desert?”

Cadet Kirk does not attend breakfast on day thirty one.

On day thirty two James takes breakfast with Spock again, consuming his grain and fruit. On this day he asks, “What is the probability of a Shatarr bite being poisonous to a human?”

“Considering the differences between your Iron based and a Vulcan’s Copper based blood types, T’Mir had calculated fifty-two point six seven likelihood Vulcan toxins would affect Earthlings in the same manner.”

Day’s thirty three through thirty six’s questions all focus on common Vulcan hair styles.

James prepares Spock’s morning meal before he arrives to dine on day thirty seven. He stands at Spock’s left side while eating what has become his routine morning meal and asks him if Vulcan’s have strictly heteronormative gender constructs.

Spock burns his tongue on his Plomeek broth.

It is too hot.

The next afternoon Spock is unable to locate James Kirk in his chambers; the cadet is not in the Kitchen. A sharp twang alerts him to his presence in the library where he finds Kirk examining the lute.

He looks up startled and moves away from the instrument, his face taken on a reddish hue and he averts eye contact.

It is a curious phenomena that Spock does not readily recognize as a blush, too far used to them being _green_ tinged rather than red.

“Do you have interest in playing?” Spock asks.

“No.” He blurts, and rushes from the room.

\----

James Kirk begins to rapidly change patterns during the second month; he oscillates between routines so quickly that it would be illogical to attempt to catalogue them as such.

James works out in the morning, then in the evening, he eats three meals, he takes only one, he wanders the house inspecting objects, he isolates himself to his bathing room, one day he spends in the kitchen going through the food stores and tries to makes something that resembles a ‘shake.’ Spock finds him sitting in the front sand garden one night, idly tracing patterns in the sand with his index fingers.

“I think it’s too hot to come out during the day,” he explains.

Spock walks back to his laboratory and places himself on his bench side stool. He brings two fingers to the bridge of his nose and applies pressure. James Kirk is like a hyperactive Sehlat.

It occurs to him then that is Kirk is sneaking out at night to sit in the sand because he fears the daytime heat will be too much for him, that all of his restless behaviors are due to being kept inside for too long-just like a house pet.

Spock sighs.

He consults with T’Mir over the issue and she assures him in that, “given proper precautions Jim Kirk can safely ambulate out of doors in the daylight. Of course his fairer skin, due to the pigment cells being inactive until repeated expose put him at greater risk for burning under UV light, which is fascinating really, combined with their sudoriferous glands, well it really is remarkable, especially with the calculated regrowth rate Spock, you must study our notes…”

Well, Spock had gotten the gist of it.

He expects for the Earthling to attend in his daily walks from then on.

He was certainly did _not_ expect to find him _nude_ , reclining in the area of sand behind the house.

“James!”

“Oh, hey Spock, what’s up?” Jim replies lazily from underneath the cloth he had draped over his eyes.

“Cadet Kirk that colloidal hydrogel is unstable to pressure shifts; furthermore it lies directly above the aquifer which supplies our home with water. It is not suitable for bathing.”

Kirk lifted the cloth from his face, “Are you telling me I’m reclining in a vat of quicksand Spock?”

Spock is not sure what ‘quicksand’ is, “An area of earth which appears as the earth around it, yet is unstable to pressure changes?”

“Huh,” Jim sat up, running his tongue over his upper lip, “That definitely sounds like quicksand.”

“Cadet Kirk, now that we have established your understanding of the situation would you remove yourself from the, ‘quicksand.’ It is highly improper for you to be bathing in it, and nude might I add.”

James purses his lips. “I don’t see what the problem is, you don’t have neighbors who will see me, and have you tried this? It’s amazing! The sand is so warm, it’s like a hot tub.” He sinks further down into the sand, eyeing Spock with something that looks like a challenge.

Spock’s spine stiffens, he tilts his head. “It is simply not done on Vulcan, and the difference between our core temperatures accounts for the reason you find the sand to be hot whereas I would simply find it mild.”

His guest’s eyes narrow. Jim pulls himself upwards, bringing himself into a sitting position; the sand runs down his chest towards his navel. Spock takes note of the reddish hue of his pectorals and of his muscles shoulders.

“And I see you did not use the cream T’Mir supplied you with, you appear to have burned.”

“What?!” Jim throws his arms out and begins patting his chest with his hands. “No way, I didn’t think I would need it, I thought the sand would cover me!” He palpates his pectorals and gently makes his way along his shoulders, flinching when he meets his deltoids. “Ach!”

Spock’s eye brows furrow, his voice is a low rumble and “You did not think you needed it?” He breathes heavily through his nose, “James Kirk, sand does not block ultraviolet rays!”

His raised tone alerts Kirk to his anger and the human vaults from the pool. Spock is graced by the image of his lean muscled back and highly rounded backside.

The Cadet was in fact _nude_.

As usual Spock feels disappointed with himself for losing his temper, more so around James Kirk, for whom he is supposed to be a _model_ Vulcan citizen. He longs to meditate or hide in his lab.

And yet, how could Kirk have been so careless? The ‘quicksand,’ (he has to admit it is easier referring to it as such than by calling it a _colloidal hydrogen),_ incident could come down to a cultural misunderstanding, but not the blatant disregard for his health. James knew he was at risk of being burned under the Vulcan sun, he said so himself eighty six hours ago!

James has wrapped himself in a towel that Spock had not noticed beforehand and finds himself grateful for his propriety.  The human runs his hand through the back of his hair, which is shaggy now and two inches longer than it had been upon arrival at Spock’s home. It is a habit of his that Spock has taken note of, which the cadet appears to practice whenever feeling nervous or uncomfortable; it is always accompanied with a change in respiratory rate and posture.

“I’m sorry Spock. I didn’t know it was improper to bathe in the sand like that. On Earth it’s common to bathe outdoors in hot springs and hot tubs so I assumed it would be so here.”

Spock huffs and reaches out to lead Kirk inside; he must get him out of the sunlight and see to his burn. Perhaps even a call to T’Mir is in order. “It is no matter, only a cultural misunderstanding. If you agree to use your sun cream I can find no logical reason to refuse you the continuation of this practice.”

Jim allows himself to be lead into the house.

\-----

Spock has had to increase the length and frequency of his medications by an average of 4.37 hours a week because of Cadet James T. Kirk. He is…exhausted by him.

What had started out as calm and predictable has now escalated into irrational and predictably unpredictable behavior on James Kirks end. And yet each time he goes for his weekly meeting with T’Mir for an evaluation, Spock hears of nothing other than how impressed the VSA is with Cadet Kirk, how surprisingly _logical_ and _rational_ a being he is and his people must be.

Spock does not know how, but they are being fooled.

James Kirk is _not_ logical; he is irrational and unpredictable and takes unnecessary risks.

He deviates from routine daily, in fact that seems to be his routine, and he gambles his health against _poor_ probabilities. Spock must hand in his report on the Earthlings progress but he cannot fathom how to express his analyses, which is the polar opposite of the VAS’s without his competency being questioned.

Spock will start with some strong tea.

That morning, (it is day forty seven of their cohabitation), he had taken breakfast with James Kirk, and left him to his daily exercise regimen; these were the only consistencies of Kirk’s routine, that and his daily supply of questions.

“Spock, did Vulcan’s evolve from Cacti?”

He had _nearly_ choked on his tea.

“Do Vulcan’s lay eggs?”

“Do Le-Matya eat Vulcan’s or just maul them?”

Spock had left Jim to his ‘work out,’ or so he had thought, for when he stopped for lunch he could not find Kirk _anywhere_ in the house. This in itself was not distressing, for he often utilized the quicksand in the back as a ‘hot tub,’ (he had never again forgotten his sun cream). However when Spock went to check on him, James _was not_ there.

Spock stared at the quicksand expectantly.

James Kirk did not appear.

He raced to the edge of the pool and plunged his arms in up to his shoulders; if the Cadet had submerged then he could easily suffocate, faster than a Vulcan would due to his blood chemistry.

Spock felt _nothing_ , nor did he observe the usual stack of towels that Kirk placed beside the pool for when he bathed. He forced himself to take several calming breaths. It was unlikely Kirk was here.

So where was he?

He couldn’t help but notice the way his respiratory rate and heart rate increased-anxiety, he was experiencing anxiety.

Spock tore into Kirk’s room, searching for any indication as to where the Cadet had gone. He ripped through his wardrobe and chest of drawers, flipped over his bed covers and pawed through the cabinets in his bathroom.

Protocol indicated that he notify the VSA of his charges disappearance but he knew if he could only handle this himself, _quickly_ , then there was no need to involve the VSA, the repercussions would be severe if he did.

Spock sat back on his heels on the cool tile of Kirk’s bathroom and forced himself to think. What was amiss? Surely Kirk’s behavior had given some indication as to his whereabouts? What key belongings were missing?

His flight suit and boots, the glasses Spock had procured for him to shield his sensitive eyes from the Vulcan sun…T’Mir’s sun lotion.

He had not seen the sun lotion, and Kirk had asked several questions related to the Vulcan landscape, _I think it’s too hot to go out during the day, Do Le-Matya eat Vulcan’s or just maul them, Are there poisonous organisms in the desert , What is the probability of a Shatarr bite being poisonous to a human?_

James Kirk had demonstrated a trait towards restless behavior, perhaps he had ventured out, beyond the lines of Spock’s property and into the desert beyond.

He had collected bottles of water, a first aid kit, and travelled out across the sand.

Luckily for Jim he had only made it 403 meters, what Spock had first taken for a cactus was upon closer observation cadet Kirk in the distance. He raced towards his figure, arriving only to find the cadet crouched down, poking at a Pandree borough with a stick in his gloved fingers.

The cadet had arranged a turban over his head, and a makeshift veil for his face. A small pack of water and aide supplies were strapped to his back. No skin was visible, except for a small strip above his sun glasses beneath the cover of his turban.

Spock could see the sweat beaded there; the aseptic scent of T’Mir’s sun cream.

“Hey Spock,” Jim says without looking, he continues his ministrations with the borough. In all probability the pandree residing within has retreated further into one of its escape tunnels.

“James.” Spock hesitates, he oscillates between exasperation and relief. His body breathes out and folds itself into a crouch behind Kirk.

He tilts his head in question and Kirk looks at him then. “I wasn’t trying to escape or kill myself, but there’s only so long I can stand being confined Spock.”

Spock watches his reaction in the reflection of Jim’s glasses. “Then why did you not inform me of your feelings, something could have been arranged, coming alone into the Shikahr desert-“

“I know, I know.” He interrupts. Jim flips his glasses up and really looks at Spock eye to eye. The light from the sun flashes over his blue eyes, a stark contrast to the overwhelming orange and red surrounding them. Spock finds himself momentarily transfixed.

“But I knew what I was getting into Spock, I calculated the risk the worth taking and I came prepared, and you wouldn’t have even known I was gone if I had made it back on time. The only thing you can fault me for is for not leaving a note!” Cadet Kirk surges to his feet and tosses his stick onto the sand.

Spock’s eyebrows shoot skyward. He believes he has just experienced a human losing its temper. Cadet Kirk towers over him from his crouched position on the sand, glaring, as if challenging Spock to tell him otherwise.

Well…

It is at that moment that James Kirk wavers. Spock notes the change in his posture, the line of his body waves and his eyes roll as he begins to tip sideways.

He realizes then what it must be like for Kirk to have had all the freedoms of an adult on earth to essentially being coddled like a child on Vulcan and how frustrating and demeaning his life has become. Simple skills and pleasures are now beyond him. The man can no longer read, he cannot even walk about his home without supervision for fear of injury.

Spock catches him before he can faint, his 74.8 kilo frame feels light in Spock’s grip. “James, James!” He jostles him.

Kirk groans. “I used all my tri ox compound,” he breathes. His head rests heavily against Spock’s shoulder. “That’s why I was late….couldn’t catch my breath.”

Spock does not have any tri ox compound in his aide kit. “You went through your days supply?”

 

A moment passes.

 

“Three.”

“Ah. It appears T’Mir did not account for oxygen usage in instances of physical duress. I will suggest so in my report to her, as it stands,” Spock slings one of Kirk’s arms around his shoulder and anchors then together by his hip, “I will assist you to our home.”

They begin a slow but steady march, “You would do well not to mention this incident to T’Mir or any other Vulcan Cadet Kirk.”

“Heh,” Kirk huffs, “deal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH FINALLY FINALLY SPOCK AND FINALLY THE FUN CHAPTERS WILL BE POSTED. Did you like Spock?  
> Also this story was supposed to be like 12 chapters and somehow its extended to nearly 20 so hang in there for the loooong haul.


	7. Don't Eat the Blue Sand

                        7 Don’t Eat the Blue Sand

 

 “You must take care during your walks to always be aware of the noises of the desert Jim-“

_Wow, Spock had a nice ass._

_Wait, bad Jim!_ Pay attention _!_

“-begin their vocalizations that a Le-Matya is near.”

 _Crap_ , Spock had been imparting life saving wisdom while Jim’s wandering eyes were drawn in by the Vulcan’s bubble butt.

“How did you pronounce that name?” Thankfully Spock also had _really_ distracting hands, which he was using to gesture…something that may mean _tiny hopping rodents_?

“Avlak, Avlakim. They are the Le-Matya’s primary food source.” Spock’s voice rumbles on about the Avlakim and their burrows (they are like rodents, score again for Jim!) and how prone they are to dehydration.

Jim’s walk abouts have become routine, but they are scheduled (for temperature and in relation to tri-ox supply) so that Spock knows when to go looking if anything goes wrong.  As it is now, he has grown to enjoy his daily stroll through the…sand with Spock. I mean, he’d thought that all Vulcans would be as interesting as tax accountants but Spock actually had some interesting things to say now and again.

 _Also,_ he was _very_ sexy, in a repressed nerd way.

After weeks of working out their walks don’t wind him like he had been that first day before the hovercraft. To put it bluntly he’s super jacked, his abs have abs, and have you seen his biceps? And nobody talk about his ass, it’s just as fabulous as ever, thank you. As for his tan...well it was touch and go, _lots of burning at first,_ the first time after the quicksand he had been as red as a lobster and his nose had peeled so much…eugh.

But athletics only got him so far and they were rapidly losing their novelty. Which was why he has started exploring the backyard, or really the desert out back. Mostly it’s a bunch of fucking sand and some cactuses, which Vulcan’s apparently _hadn’t_ evolved from. Jim is sorely disappointed over that. Every now and then he comes across a shatarr, which are poisonous to Vulcans and possibly to him so he tries to steer clear, shoo them off with his stick if they got too close, but those little bastards have this habit of _swimming_ out of the sand spontaneously so Jim is essentially relying on the olde Kirk luck. He still hasn’t seen a le-matya, which is good and highly unlikely and according to Spock those vicious beasts rarely venture so close to civilization, but you never know. His plan if he does come across one is pretty much to scream and hope human bathed in sun screen and sweat doesn’t smell appetizing.

Meh.

 “Spock, do Vulcans have any games?” Maybe they can bond over intellectual Uno or something to do with math.

Spock hangs back to allow Jim to enter their house first, it is something he does often. Jim isn’t sure if it is a common courtesy or if it is something unique unto Spock. “Vulcan children play games of logic to assist them in their studies.”

“Ohhhh…. I see.”

Jim turns to look at Spock as he closes the door behind them. His eyes catch on the smooth stones arranged in the sand garden as the door slides shut, it would be a simple matter to colour symbols onto them. “Nothing for entertainment’s sake?” Jim’s gaze turns to the Vulcan’s strong jaw line and then to his lips, lingering too long on the down turn of Spock’s mouth. He becomes aware that he’d been caught staring.

Spock folds his hands behind his back, as he always does when feeling vulnerable. “No, such actions are considered an illogical use of time.”

Jim sends him a wry smile. “Of course they are.”

\---o--

_Meanwhile at the engineering academy…_

“Success!” Vorik cannot help the exclamation as he is overwhelmed with positive emotion.

Koss looks over from his station from where he was severely hunched over his electron microscope, analyzing the materials of Kirk’s fuel emission system.

His student seems to hear his raised brow from across the lab.

Vorik’s head appears from under Cadet Kirk’s ship, much like the valits that tunnel through their hydration system. He pulls his goggles upward, resting them atop his head. “Professor, I may have accessed the systems locations log.”

Koss’s eyebrow urges him to continue.

Vorik’s twitches with excitement, “Data indicates that these are recorded systems files. Do not Vulcan ships use similar files to indicate the ship’s home location when emergency activated?”

By now Koss has deemed it necessary to approach his intern’s work station. There is an excess of welding tools placed in a container next to an excess of data cables.

He would question Vorik on that later.

Vorik suddenly realizes that his superior is standing over him expectantly. “Oh, yes, let me just insert one of these cables,” he pulls at random a data cable from his supply and ducks again underneath the ship. A blue light flashes.

Koss stares.

Vorik reappears and stares.

“ _It’s Flight 19 in space!”_ A male voice shouts in English. The audio is poorly recorded; it crackles in three locations and does not separate the whirring of what was most certainly the warp drive and engine overloading. _Insane_ cackling follows, which is then cut off by the shrill sound of metal grating on metal. The record cuts out on a scream.

Koss blinks. That was most certainly the last recording of Cadet Kirk’s ship before it crashed. “Vorik-”

His pupil interrupts as usual, “Wait, perhaps I can backtrack the recording to its starting point. That was most certainly the last recorded time, just a moment!”

Vorik does not wait for Koss to signal him to proceed; he dives once again underneath the ship and begins tinkering. Koss is mildly unset that there is no more scientific term to refer to what his student is doing. He looks left, then right, and gingerly lowers himself on top of a semi cleared space on Vorik’s work bench. Does he truly have need for all of these tools? He is at least relieved that they are organized neatly into their respective containers, but the sheer quantity is excessive. He picks up a laser magnet and toys idly with it as he waits for his student to have another revelation.

“Aha!”

Right on cue.

“I’ve got it!” Vorik’s voice echoes from underneath the ship. It doesn’t seem like he would be emerging again, Koss notes; his student is rapidly approaching that period of work when he is almost hysterical with fervor and will not be persuaded to leave his station for at least a day.

When the audio plays next, it is not polluted by the distressed sounds of engine failure, or the hysteria of a pilot in shock. It is a calm record, quiet all but for the female voice speaking, “ _This is the starship Enterprise, the first warp vessel of the Planet Earth, third planet from the Sun…”_

\---o--

After their daily walk Jim retires to his chambers, and yes that’s what he calls them, (it made him laugh hysterically), for a bath. He wouldn’t be able to shower _for days_ after but it was going to be _so_ worth it, nothing was going to stop him from soaking in the deliciously hot water. And if he absolutely has to get clean in that time span then he would just do what he expected all Vulcans did: rub themselves with hot sand _like a chinchilla._

Jim grins, ok, so that’s actually illogical because Spock had _nearly seized_ the first time he’d found Jim in the sand pit but still, he’s pretty sure they didn’t bathe as often as he did, for one thing they didn’t sweat. A good rub down was probably all they needed to stay clean.

Jim smirks at that, a rub down, _heh_.

Anyway, he figures the sand would exfoliate enough to achieve his purposes and if not _who the fuck cared_ , because _holy shee-it_ this bath was worth it, Jim thinks as he lowers himself in. He sighs with great feeling and relaxes himself back into the water.

Jim gropes blindly for his padd, the one that Spock had gifted him the week prior. He had outfitted it with the software used for blind patients, everything was input via audio commands and all information was relayed in the same way. Coupled with T’Vora’s UT Jim could access information and finally have something to do other than exercise. It had taken him a few hours, the software needed very literal commands to interpret you correctly, but he had finagled it so that what he said could be printed on the screen _in Vulcan._

If he says, “My name is Jim Kirk,” it would be relayed in printed Vulcan. It is crude but it would achieve his goal.  He is hoping to at least learn by memorization to read basic Vulcan phrases; _help me, Where’s the bathroom, is that poisonous_ , and such.

And then maybe, if they are still working on the wreck of the Enterprise, he can provide a translation from English to Vulcan for the engineering team. Jim knows that they would have a much easier time of discovering Earth’s coordinates and understanding the engine mechanics with a translation of the text printed on the materials.

 _But_ , Jim exhales, it is a long shot and in the words of his resident Vulcan, ‘ _highly unlikely_ ,’ that there would be any _usable_ information left on the wreck, or that the engineering team would require his assistance, with _anything_. It is a fools dream really.

Jim has sunk so low into his tub that when he groans bubbles form and pop against his face.

Blub Blub Blub.

“My name is Jim Kirk,” he pronounces.

His padd whirrs.

\---o--

Later when he sits for dinner, Jim asks the question that is on the tip of his tongue.

“Spock, what do Vulcan’s bathe in?” he asks between bites of his….vegetables?

The Vulcan, after nearly three months of being badgered by inane questions, no longer bats an eyebrow at the shit that spews from Jim’s mouth.

Spock’s voice resonates around his tan chopsticks, “A mixture of fine and grainy sand, pumped through a sonic shower, is optimal for both exfoliation and…”

Jim stares down as the purplish red things in his bowel, caught between the urge to laugh and frown. Was it funny that he had somehow foreseen the answer to his query, or pitiful that all Vulcans sandblasted themselves like polished wood?

 _How is this real life_ , he thinks, stabbing the beet (or something) with a chopstick, _that I’m not even surprised to learn that Vulcans bathe primarily via sand dust like adorable little chinchillas._

He tells Spock as much.

“What is a chinchilla?”

“A desert rodent from Earth, they are very fuzzy and adorable.” Jim nearly giggles. So maybe it was funny after all, the image he has conjured of Spock tossing about under a waterfall of sand certainly was.

Spock shovels a spoonful of Plomeek soup into his mouth.

Which reminds him of another of his _pressing_ concerns, “Does Vulcan have any large bodies of water? A spring, a river, lakes, a pond perhaps?”

Jim wants to go for a swim.

Spock thinks for a moment, pausing to swallow his meal, “There is a spring of decent size in the preserve by Raal, it is some 4.3 hours from here by hover car.”

Jim’s eyes narrow.

He spreads his arms sagely, “It would be very educational for me to see other areas of Vulcan,” he hints, raising his companion a golden brow.

Spock rests his utensils on his napkin and steeps his fingers, his forehead creasing in deep thought. “While I concur that such a trip would be educational, it would also require considerable planning and forethought.”

Jim nods with a mouthful of leaves.

Spock’s fingers continue to steeple, “Raal for one is 4.3 hours from here by hovercraft. I would need to arrange my work schedule accordingly.”

The more hopeful Jim got, the wider become his eyes.

“I would also need to inform the VSA and be granted approval to take you onto the preserve, as would physician T’Mir.”

Jim nods, his eyes can expand no wider.

“Because of the Sun.”

The Vulcan smirks with his eyes. “I believe a trip to Raal could be arranged with the proper preparations and notifications.”

Jim drops his chopsticks. “Really?”

“I will notify the interested parties.”

\---o--

Spock spends an extended period of time that evening making inquiries pertaining to their trip to Raal. The first to contact is the VSA.

Senva’s stoic face flickers onto the vid screen in Spock’s office. “Greetings Spock, it is uncommon for you to request an audience, to what does this matter relate?”

“Greetings representative Senva. Naturally the matter is in relation to Cadet Kirk.”

Senva’s left brow raises, ‘ _oh?’_ it says.

Spock inclines his head, his bangs taking on a serious edge. “As you know he has been adapting remarkably well to Vulcan. Recently he has been expressing interest in learning more of Vulcan climate and geography. I had suggested a trip to the Raal preserve to experience the differing geographic formations and climate.”

Senva looks thoughtful. His thin brows dip, forming a crease between his sharp eyes. “I see. I have no qualms authorizing such a trip if the proper preparations are taken. You will of course notify lead physician T’Mir of your plan? James Kirk will need specific medical supplies in an ambulatory aid kit.”

Spock nods.

“I will make inquiries into the suitability of the Raal preserve, if the park surveyors indicate the season is favorable then you may begin preparations for a day trip.”

Spock unsteeples his fingers, folding them neatly on the desk before him. “Excellent. One question representative, my work schedule will need to be rearranged or postponed if clearance is granted...”

Senva fiddles with something out of camera sight. “Yes, cadet Kirk will need your full attention while in Raal. Arrange your schedule as you see fit, I will see that proper allowances are made.” He signs the ta’al.

Spock raises his hand in return before the vid screen went black. He crosses through an item on his list then scrolls down his padd; next to contact was physician T’Mir.

The Vulcan sighs; he would need a _strong_ cup of tea.

\---o--

A week passed since Jim made his holiday request, and as far as he knows things are in motion, but he is getting impatient. He knows he shouldn’t, three months on Vulcan had taught him that nothing happened expediently when protocol needed to be followed, but he misses the days when he could act spontaneously. Here, if Jim did that he could die of heat stroke, or oxygen deprivation. Nostalgic are the days when he could call out sick from flight training in the academy, ring up Bones on his comm and the two of them would play hooky spending the day drunk at the beach. He sighs and kicks a stray stone from his path. The desert is cooler today, something about, “ _the temperate season is approaching_ ,” according to Spock. 

Whatever the reason Jim is _totally_ for it, for once it doesn’t feel like he is baking like a hot foil-covered buttered potato under all of his clothes and sunblock. He arrives at the large phallic-looking cactus he uses as a landmark and pauses, drinking lengthily from his water container. He stares through lidded eyes at the spikey green plant, vaguely wondering if this is what Spock’s penis looks like.

For all he knows they reproduce via pollination.

 _Hrm_ … he squints. T’Mir and Spock had been conspicuously avoidant surrounding the topic of reproduction and cohabitation between Vulcans. They had been open about societal and scientific topics, even those about basic biology and widely enthusiastic over the geography and wildlife but had avoided finer anatomy and reproduction all together.

He tucks the bottle back into his backpack and reaches upward, arching his back, stretching until he feels and hears the familiar popping of his vertebrae.

It is about time to head back.

Jim pouts and kicks sand around between his flight boots. These walks of his have lost their ‘magic,’ after all there were only so many times he could view the same scenery without getting bored with it. He _barley_ needs his tri ox compound when he goes out nowadays so the athletic challenge was gone to boot.  He casts a glare at the cactus.

What he wouldn’t give to get his hands around a nice penis.

In all of his sand kicking Jim doesn’t notice a shatarr surfacing to the right of his heel.

“Shit,” he swears, attempting to shoo the reptile away. It dodges and darts foreword, clamping its jaws around his ankle.

“Hah!” Jim shouts, “dumbass, you just try getting through that leather!”

The shatarr whips itself, rolling its body in an arc, and then releases its grip, dropping into the sand. It dives smoothly beneath it in the next heartbeat.

Jim reaches down to inspect the leather of his boot. It is thankfully undamaged, not that he expected it not to be. One could expect only the very best from the UNAD.

But, while he is fingering the leather the shatarr resurfaces to his left and in one fluid arch attaches itself to his left calf, its sharp fangs piercing easily the durable blue cloth of his flight suit.

“Fuck!” he shouts. He remembers Spock calculating the odds of such bites being poisonous to his anatomy, something like 52%?

“You yellow fucker!” he cries as the shatarr’s bite on his calf tightens, its tail whipping, jerking its body and his damaged tissue to and fro.

He grabs it by the jaws, the leather of his gloves protecting his fingers and forces his way between his leg and its mouth. Jim squeezes, blocking out the pain that bit through his hand and leg and compresses against the shatarr’s snout.

The creature makes a gurgling noise, its lower jaw twitches against him, sharp teeth slicing through the meat of his calf. He tightens his grip further, feels its needle-like teeth prick against the skin of his fingers, ruining his gloves.

The shatarr all at once releases its bite, convulsing as Jim angrily hurls it as far as Vulcan’s atmosphere will allow from him. It lands uncomfortably on its scaled back with a loud hiss, a cloud of sand and dust rising in its wake.

Jim shouts in pain, a long exhalation of adrenaline and locks his jaw, hissing between his teeth.

“Stupid fucker!”

He bends over, wrapping both hands around the tissue just above the wound. Jim groans again when he felt the throbbing heat radiating through his left leg.  He knows the odds were against him, if the shatarr’s venom was poisonous to him as it was to Vulcans then he only had a limited time frame before he fell unconscious.

A tourniquet, doesn’t he need a tourniquet? He tears the veil he was using to block the sun from his face and swiftly knots it above the wound.

The leg throbs.

He remembers Bones telling him once that a low blood pressure would slow the spread of venom, but in his case that wouldn’t help. The hypoxia he generally suffers on Vulcan causes his blood pressure and heart rate to elevate, meaning the venom would spread _faster_.

 _Goddamit_ Jim is basically screwed.

As he staggers resolutely back towards the house he has a moment of indecision: move slowly to stagnate the spread of the toxins or move quickly and hope he reaches Spock in time?

 _Oh my god_ , he thinks, _do I really need to choose?_

He’d rather die viewing a familiar face than alone face down in the sand.

Jim hoists up his pack, ignoring the pain and surges onward.

\---

When Spock emerges for his afternoon break, he enters the home library intent on paying his lute. As he sips his tea his eyes track foreign movement from outside the window. A figure dressed in blue lurches past, in the direction of the rear entrance.

 _Jim_ , he thinks at first. But then something in the human’s movements alarms him and he _just knows_. Spock forgets his tea, moving quickly to intercept him.

It _is_ Jim.

The cadet staggers towards the doorway, collapsing on the shaded sand at the Vulcan’s feet. “Spock,” he grunts. He turns himself over, his chest heaving. “Ran here…bitten by shatarr.”

Spock feels something in himself break. “Jim!”

He lifts Jim effortlessly and carries him into the house, depositing him onto the cool tile of the kitchen. He dashes for his comm.  An emergency call to T’Mir goes through and in seconds her voice chimes in. “Spock? This is the emergency channel, is Jim Kirk injured?”

“Poisoned,” Spock bites out, “by a shatarr.”

\---

Jim comes to once again, on his back in the Vulcan medical academy. What is my life, he thinks, that this is a regular occurrence. Even when he was on Earth waking up on his back pantsless on a foreign bed in a white room was considered commonplace for him.

The only difference being that if he was home he would wake to Bones grousing at his desk with a shot of ‘welcome back bourbon’ waiting for him.

He groans and sits up.

At least this time no one’s face is staring down at his, though he really wouldn’t mind if it were Bones. If he ever lived to see him again Jim would never stop him from examining him _ever_ again. Bones could stick his favourite scanner in his face all he wanted, Jim would stick to his nasty health food diet (which he was basically following now anyway) and iron his scrubs for him if that’s what it took just to hear Bones’s endearing bitching again.

He runs a hand through his long hair and looks around. Spock is slumped over in a chair across the medbay. His hair is in disarray and his over shirt has been divested, leaving him in nothing but his black undershirt.

“T’Mir?” Jim calls.

The physician appears in a whirlwind of fabrics from beyond a privacy curtain, as if on cue. She beams, eyes twinkling, holding her med scanner before her.

It begins whirring and beeping the moment it comes within range.

“So, am I out of the woods yet?”

T’Mir cocks her head, “Jim Kirk, there are no woodlands nearby nor anywhere on Vulcan. Do you believe yourself to be hallucinating?” T’Mir frowns and inputs something into her device.

Jim smirks and swats the scanner away from him. “It’s an Earth expression T’Mir. I feel fine. What I meant was, what is my prognosis?”

T’Mir’s mouth gapes and then snaps shut. Her eyes crease in what Jim believes to be a smile. “You prognosis is excellent, your were not poisoned by the shatarr bite as we had expected, the probability was 47.33% yet in fact your anatomy is immune to the neurotoxins. What you ultimately required treatment for was hypoxia, and the obvious laceration on your calf.”

 _“No way.”_ His eyes widen. Bones would have a conniption. Of all things in the universe for him _to not_ have a reaction to, it was a _venomous_ reptile bite.

T’Mir choses to ignore his exclamation to input more data into her scanner. She smooths the sheet over his lap. Jim flushes.

“How long has Spock been out for?”

T’Mir has apparently not noticed the handsome sleeping Vulcan across her medbay. “I had not noticed his presence. I estimate he has been here long.”

Jim raises his eyebrows (the habit was really proving contagious). ‘Long,’ is an uncharacteristically vague time description coming from a Vulcan.

“Though now that you are conscious and your oxygen levels have stabilized you may wake him and depart at your discretion.”

“Well,” Jim says, “I would, but I’d really like some pants first.”

\---o---

A week passes.

Jim shoots Spock a look from his seat across the kitchen. The Vulcan is quickly assembling himself a salad in the farthest corner. His back is ramrod straight, facing Jim. He’d given no indication that he even notices Jim sitting there.

Okay, Jim thinks, I know you see me. Vulcan’s _don’t_ overlook things.

He begins chewing his grapes (or whatever they are, pink berry things with spotted yellow insides and sour juice) obnoxiously; knowing Spock and his elf ears can hear him.

He glares. Spock collects his meal and leaves the room with only a parting nod in his direction.

Jim spits out his grapes.

Well fuck me, Jim thinks, _are we having a fight?_

Because this sort of behavior has become almost regular from the Vulcan, ever since the shatarr incident. It’s like Jim had somehow pushed him over the edge. The last seven days he’s been living with a _robo bitch_ instead of a _robo nerd_. He spends all his spare time in his laboratory; no more banter over dinner, no more afternoon walks, just curt ‘greetings,’ and ‘Kirk,’ and stupid nods like this last one.

He squishes the rest of his grapes, watching as their sticky juice drools from the pulp and down his forearm.

 _“Stupid Vulcan,”_ he mutters and begins viscously smashing the rest of them like a five year old having a tantrum.

Jim feels lonely.

He doesn’t know if he’s angered his host, or if the incident has just _upset_ him.

Which is it? Was Jim Kirk finally _too much_ for the Vulcan to handle? Had Spock, annoyed and exasperated, finally been pushed beyond his tolerance level, in the inevitable way that everyone in his life had been _except_ for Bones?

Was this his fault?

_This is my fault._

Jim bows his head, resting it on the sticky mess he’s created on the dining table.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so stuck right now guys on this chapter with shittons of vulcans so i was delayed and will be until i get this shiz written out. So if anyone's curious I'm getting all the Vulcan animals and names from Kirshara and Wiki and Enterprise.
> 
> ehh


	8. The Big Boots of Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Spock take a trip.

 

                        8. “The Big Boots of Pain.”

 

Weeks had passed and he was entering his fourth month on Vulcan, when all plans for the trip to Raal were finalized.

Spock approached his doorway in the early morning, well early for Jim, when he routinely ran through his exercises. Except that morning he was laying, defeated and gloomily on the cool floor, limbs akimbo, rhythmically blowing strands of hair off his face.

 _Shit_ he needed a haircut.

The sensors indicating a person is nearby chime and it’s not as if Jim doesn’t know who is outside, it can only be Spock, but he doesn’t move to intercept him at the door. The Vulcan has been distant, not that they were ever close, but before it was almost as if they were approaching something of a casual friendship. Lately he’s been non-consensually a part of a cordial cohabitation. “Would you like more plomeek broth? I would advise not journey outside today as the temperature is uncharacteristically high, please collect your linens cadet Kirk… and on and on _and nothing_.

Jim groans and rolls over, crawling to the doorway with the petulance of a small child. With great emotional exhaustion he hoists himself up, leaning against the doorway and chimes Spock in.

“Yes?” he says, expression flat, his lower lips slightly pouting.

As has become usual for him, Spock stands with his arms crossed behind his back, his head slightly bowed. As if he cannot sand to make direct contact with Jim. “Greetings. Have I interrupted your athletics regimen?”

“No,” Jim lies.

He glares, waiting for Spock to continue.

Spock looks somewhere down and off to the left of Jim, but never directly at him. “This morning I received word that travel to Raal has been approved. All preparations may be finalized at your consent.”

At this he finally sneaks a glance at Jim, its fleeting, and Jim barley catches it because of how focused he is on gouging a hole through Spock’s stupid bangs with his eyes.

He realizes that he should be thankful; that Spock is waiting for some kind of response, after all the trip was entirely his idea. He thinks back to how amused Spock had almost seemed when the ideas had first been brought up. Jim loosens his posture and cards both sets of fingers through his hair.

“Yeah… Yeah hey that’s great Spock. Fantastic, let’s go as soon as possible. It’ll be great.”

Spock looks at him for a moment and then nods. His arms reappear at his side as he turns to leave. Jim sends him a half hearted smile and Spock tracks the motion with his eyes, his eyebrows almost pensive.

After he leaves and the door is once again closed Jim sighs and sinks to the floor. All at once he feels himself overflowing, somehow that awkward interaction was the tipping point and he shudders all over. A great heaving breath escapes him, opening the floodgates and tears start to fall. He sits there, braced against the door, his lower lip quivering with tears rolling down his cheeks for some time.

He doesn’t know what it was, maybe it was just too much, maybe he had been suppressing more than he’d thought, maybe he’d been betting everything he had on Spock, he doesn’t know. But after he feels lighter than he has in days.

\---o--

It’s not that Spock is angry with James Kirk- _Jim_ , nor is he even inconvenienced by the human’s presence. He cannot account for his reaction to Jim’s injury, nor for his irresponsible emotional dysfunction. Even after successfully meditating he still cannot quell the irksome sensation he feels in his chest around Jim. It makes him irritated and distracts him, from everything.

The sensation cannot be named.

But he was so… _upset_ by seeing the human injured and unmoving at his feet. It had felt like suddenly he had so much to lose. Logically it should have sparked a fear of professional loss, the human had been injured under his care, it was his reputation as risk, and yet the incident had stung personally. When had the lines between professional and personal regard been blurred? Spock was… _unsettled_ at how attached he had allowed himself to grow to Cadet Kirk, it was certainly a breach of professionalism. He tried to distance himself, remove himself to a more appropriate level, yet he missed the pleasure he received from their short walks and meal conversations. A small part of him felt guilty, for Cadet Kirk clearly suffered from the separation. His previously jovial personality diminished, he secluded himself within his chambers, ceased bathing in the sand.

It was almost cruel to watch Jim Kirk suffer as he was but Spock could not be around the human and maintain control, not with that irritating _unknown_ feeling in his chest.

\---o--

On the day of their trip he has packed an industrial amount of sun block and doused himself in so much of it that he sees Spock’s nose wrinkle when he appears in the kitchen with his bag. Spock for once is dressed in something less professional, he wears a loose tunic over black underclothes, which makes him look more like an elf than normal, but Jim does not comment. He has his padd with him, and a pack of food and the massive aid kit that must follow Jim everywhere. _At least that is familiar_ , he thinks, Bones used to do the very same thing. He thinks longingly of how Bones would insist on scanning his food every time they went out.

He tries not to let his mood defeat him. He should be excited, how many people got to go on road trips to a desert oasis on an alien planet? None, that’s how many. Jim Kirk is the first, and he should be fist pumping in Komack’s face and dancing obnoxiously in his flight suit because of how cool that is.

\---o--

All drama aside, the four hour ride to Raal went over fairly smoothly. Spock had driven while Jim sat in the back busying himself with his English to Vulcan translator. A few hours of studying, and power nap had made the time pass quickly. And Spock was acting _almost human_ , he smiled at that thought. The Vulcan initiated conversation, asked him about things other than his wellbeing and responded with things other than, “I am functional,” when asked in return. It was nice, it made him think that things were going to get better between them, that maybe Spock was done being mad at him, or disappointed…or something.

Raal itself was beautiful, the desert park had the nicest cacti and rocks Jim had ever seen. And the sand, well, it was very pretty as well. Ok, so it looked just like any other part of Vulcan he had seen, but Spock seemed so taken with it as he led them around, pointing out landforms and flora and fauna that Jim had just smiled and nodded and gone, “oooh, aaaaah,” in pretend awe. And the more appreciative he acted about the scenery the happier and more relaxed Spock became, so by the end of the tour it wasn’t so much him pretending to be happy, it was just Jim actually feeling happy at seeing Spock something other than grouchy and despondant.

That was until he saw the spring.

They had rounded a rocky outcropping and there it was, sparkling in all its glory, a small spring, the size of a pond, nestled beneath the cliffs.  Dotting the perimeter was more vegetation than he had seen in any place all together on the desert planet. The water had looked so _deliciously_ cool and thirst quenching.

“This is the largest surface body of water on all of Vulcan,” Spock explained proudly.

And so it had went.

Spock had begged off in favor of analyzing some experiment results of his while Jim tore his clothes off. Godamm would he be burned later but it would be worth it just to feel his body gliding fluidly through the water.

When the air became thinner and his muscles fatigued, he had crawled to shore and rolled himself into the shade of the boulder Spock was sitting on.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he had asked while studying some equation or another.

“Immensely,” Jim sighed while injecting himself with tri ox compound. He had rested in the shade for several minutes while waiting for the medication to take effect.

In fact what was he even doing still sitting up? It was vacation, the only things he should be doing were sleeping and drinking, and since he had yet to find any alcoholic substance to abuse on Vulcan he laid himself back onto the cool sand.

He could sense Spock somewhere to his left

“Fascinating,” he mumbled absently to his data padd.

Jim smiled and draped an arm over his eyes.

\---o--

Later, after Jim had woken and decided that it was a crying shame that he had yet to work on his tan, he had stretched out on a boulder under the warm sun, listening to the cadences of the avlakim. The little bastards had just started up their vocalizations, which actually sounded similar to cicadas, it wasn’t so disturbing once your mind ruled it out as white noise.

Hrm… he was forgetting something.

Jim sat up and shielded his eyes from the bright light. “Hey Spock?”

The Vulcan in question was sitting near the water, some yards from him, fiddling with his padd, most likely doing work, as usual. Spock glanced up from his work, “Yes Kirk?”

“It’s Jim. Was it good or bad if the Avlak started making noise?”

Spock froze, he tossed his padd and rolled into a crouch. “Bad,” he hissed, “A Le Matya is near.”

Jim went straight into action mode, he knew what a Le Matya was, he had seen pictures in preparation for this very trip. Large feline like predators, bright green and yellow, poisonous, studded with sharp fangs and claws.  He flattened his body along the boulder and scanned the horizon for any signs of movement. Nothing, all his eyes could pick out was orange shapes.

“Jim!” Spock shouted, “On your right!”

Jim flipped over to see the creature stalking towards them. He remembered the stun gun Spock had packed in his bag and dove for it.

Spock had sprinted towards him and began shouting at the beast to distract it, he dodged around a boulder, seeming to lead the Le Matya away. The creature snarled and changed its course, purposefully following after the Vulcan.

Meanwhile Jim was franticly searching through Spock’s bag for the stun gun.

“Fuck where is it, the fuck does it even look like-“

Spock was shouting from over his left shoulder, getting closer, which meant that the Le Matya was gaining on him and, “Jim use the phase pistol, it’s-”

“I got it!” Jim spun around in time to see the creature making to pounce on Spock who had suddenly appeared directly behind him. Jim dropped to his knees, firing under Spock’s protective stance. The shot hit the Le Matya on a rear leg just as it lifted off the ground. The beast snarled as it came towards them, saliva spitting from its jaws.  Jim panicked, and aimed to shoot as Spock tackled him. He ended up chucking the gun in its face as they all crashed into the sand.

Though his shot had only grazed its hide the Le Matya was still momentarily stunned. It struggled to right itself again, all the while snarling and lurching towards them.

Spock was trying to shield Jim with his body while drag them away and it just wasn’t working. They needed a plan. Jim gripped Spock’s forearm and looked all around him. They had lost the gun, there had to be something that could help them.

_The spring!_

“Spock, can it swim?”

“Jim, now is not the time!”

Jim knocked the Vulcan off of him and onto his ass as he surged upward. His had caught Spock’s wrist and he pulled his friend to his feet. “Can they swim?”

Spock gasped and pulled his wrist from Jim’s grasp.

“Can they swim?” he asked again, recapturing Spock’s wrist and began leading, dragging, him towards the spring.

Fuck the needed to be running.

The Le Matya was staggering towards them; Jim could see the effects of the stun wearing off by the second.

Spock finally realized what Jim intended and froze mid step, “Jim, I cannot-”

Jim yanked him onward, until their feet began splashing through the shallows of the spring, “I know. I know you can’t Spock, but I’ll take care of you.”

Spock groaned.

They were knee deep now, on the edge of the drop off, but they still weren’t safe.

“Go!” Jim shouted, shoving Spock as hard as he could over the drop off and into the deep just as the Le Matya surged forward. The beast snarled and came at them, jumping with claws extended and jaws open. It landed in the shallows of the water and had not Jim tossed Spock under before him, they surely would have been mauled. As it was, with them waist deep and still moving out the Le Matya could only snarl in anger.

Jim dove under, after Spock. He found him quickly, caught hold of his torso just under his arms and hoisted him up. They broke the surface together, gasping for breath. The sun, brilliant red and orange, shone dizzyingly above as water ran past their necks and into the spring once more. Slowly but steadily Jim directed them into the deepest area of water, to the center of the spring.

“Spock are you ok?”

His friend coughed

Jim gets a good grip on Spock at his side. The Vulcan is sputtering and coughing up water onto his shoulder but is most certainly alive. Jim allows himself and smile and the tension that adrenaline had wound so tightly around him dissipates. I mean sure they’re sort of trapped with nothing to depend on but Jim’s musculature and his often meager oxygen supply, but hey, art least Spock is alive. Looking back Jim will find this hilarious; this was the kind of shit that could _only_ happen to Jim Kirk.

“Oy, hey Spock how you holding up?” he can feel the Vulcan’s heart thrumming wildly against his ribcage and the warmth from his arm where it is hooked over his shoulder. It’s nice.

Spock grunts and looks up at him from under thoroughly soggy bangs. He looks like a drowned cat. “Despite our encounter with the Le Matya and subsequently almost drowning, I am miraculously unharmed, though thoroughly uncomfortable.”

Jim grins and resists the strong urge he has to ruffle Spock’s hair. “Oh come on, I wouldn’t have let you drown.”

Spock fixed him with a glare, “Vulcan’s do not swim James Kirk.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes while fingers drum absently against Spock’s side. “I suppose you’ll say it’s illogical huh?”

Rivulets of water continue to drip from the Vulcan’s bangs and roll down his face, yet he makes no move to wipe them off. Perhaps he is actively denying that there is water touching any part of his body at all.

He wraps his fingers tightly around Jim.

“Vulcan’s are a desert people; it is not in our nature to submerge ourselves within a hydrogen oxygen compound.”

They float together for an indefinite amount of time. Jim still doesn’t have the hang of how time passes on Vulcan; he is used to judging time by routine, not by minutes and hours. But judging from how the stitch in his side grows to feel like a tear and the nerves in his legs twinge, he guesses it’s been long enough.

The Le Matya had gone, losing interest after spitting and charging at them from the shallows. But Jim was no fool; he had seen the way it had stalked sideways into the orange blur of the horizon, disappearing into a rocky outcropping. He had waited and not long after seen the flash of the creature’s neon tail some yards off, veiled unsuccessfully behind a boulder similar to the one Jim had rested on. So they had stayed in the spring, waiting the creature out.

Now though, with Jim’s muscles screaming for relief and his lungs contracting for more air, he realizes his limit and rolls fluidly to his back, readying for the journey back.

Spock, who had been silent, startles at the abrupt position change. Jim makes a face but does not comment, he had suspected him of meditating for some time, yet he senses that is not the reason for his alarm. Spock’s arms twist and grapple onto him, squeezing his midsection and shoulder tightly.

He thinks the Vulcan had been downplaying how much he truly ‘ _disliked’_ the water.

“s’alright,” Jim exhales between strokes, “just heading back to land.”

Spock blinks, taking in the position of the sun in the sky. “We have been afloat for some time, one hour and eight minutes.”

“Will it be enough?” Jim asks. He feels his heels brush against the shelf yet lingers precariously on its edge. He thinks that maybe if Spock says so, he could push on for just a _little_ longer.

“The Le Matya should have lost interest by now.”

Jim pulls them that final distance and feels his body sigh in relief at finally resting his feet on solid ground again. He helps Spock to stand and sees the moment when he realizes that he is no longer trapped in the water. He stumbles brusquely for the dry sand, water splashing by him in waves.

Jim scoffs again and stretches leisurely.

Spock’s clothing, soaked thoroughly through, is clung tightly to his body. Despite him looking like a miserable drowned cat Jim nods approvingly to himself at the sight. Spock’s ass for one, looks fantastic, and those thighs, why had he never noticed them before?

At the shoreline Spock stops, takes in a massive full bodied breath and turns to look at Jim, as if seeing him for the first time.

Jim quirks an eyebrow as he wades steadily to shore.

Spock is bent slightly, a hand on his hip, standing as he continues to breath heavily, the other rising finally, _finally_ to wipe the waterlogged hair from his face. But his dark eyes are fixated on him with a look Jim as not yet seen from him.

Perhaps it is gratitude?

Jim’s fingers comb through his hair.

While Jim takes some time to dry himself off and reapply his sun block (at this point he’ll probably be burned like a lobster anyway) and elegantly chug the rest for his water supply, Spock finds his comm and notifies the park rangers and ec. cetera about their little adventure. He bends to find his shirt realizing unhappily that T’Mir will most likely be notified of their dangerous encounter as well. Not that he doesn’t enjoy his visits with T’Mir, she is adorable, really, but he was just in the medbay last week. It’s not like he needs to visit again, he’s not even unconscious this time. They can definitely just go home and slather him in sun block for a week.

\---o---

He honestly can’t figure out what emotional crisis Spock is going through on the hoverride home. Is it from his near death experience? They were barley in danger, and Jim has had so many, their Le Matya adventure barley counts. In fact, he personally would not even add it to his list.

But Spock keeps looking at him when he thinks Jim isn’t paying attention.

 _As if Jim wouldn’t notice_. He’s got like a sixth sense for wandering eyes, every Kirk did, had to, what with their _fabulous_ genetics. Eyes were bound to wander when he came by.

“Spock,” he says to end the awkward silence from under the arm he had draped over his eyes, more to prevent Spock the embarrassment of discovering that Jim knew he was staring than to prevent himself from being stared at.

The Vulcan stares from behind the hands which are pressed painfully tight into his temples.

“This one time when we were still at the academy I was showing this guy around the newly refitted engineering buildings.”

Spock looks at him from behind the cage of his fingers.

“They were still tweaking some of the architecture but it was safe for use. I was explaining something to him when a support beam that had been poorly secured detached itself and came hurtling down at us.” He pauses, checking to see that he still had Spock’s attention.

He did.

“Well, I heard the groan and the twisting of the metal and looked and just saw it, ten feet of grey steel falling down on us and I tackled Bones out of the way. He would have been dead if-well we could have been crushed. As it was the beam grazed me, it fractured my pelvis and one of the rebar jutting from it nicked an artery in my thigh. I started gushing blood all over the place. I would have been dead too, in minutes if it weren’t for Bones.”

The Vulcan’s eyebrow raises minutely, Jim takes that as a good sign. “Who is Bones?”

“My friend,” says Jim.

 _Surely_ the Vulcan is smart enough to grasp the stories double meaning?

Spock leans forward, his arms resting laxly on his knees. “ _Your friend...”_

\---0--

Arriving home after such a harrowing day to find Sybok gliding showily through his kitchen made Spock want to crush something under his fist.

“Sybok,” he ~~cursed~~ greeted.

“Brother, how good to see you, it has been an expanse of time!” Sybok boomed, his overtly loud voice resonating within the room.

Spock angled his body in irritation. He needed to mediate _immediately_ ; he was emotionally compromised and holding onto his control only just barely. He could feel his mental shields slipping with his growing irritation. His mind became aware of another loud presence in the room, vibrating in confusion and excitement.  His head snapped to Jim, realizing all at once that it was his mind projecting so loudly.

Of course, he thinks, I spent one hour in close contact with Jim just this afternoon. The brush of his mind should be familiar to me.

But even then, trapped in the water with Jim wrapped around him and a Le Matya stalking them on the shore his shields had been in _better_ condition _by far._ He had sensed only emotions from Jim, and that was due to _skin to skin contact._ Now, _Jim is across the room from him,_ projecting to him loudly and clearer than before.

_It is absurd._

Jim noticed Spock looking and frowned in confusion, his lips pursed.

Spock clenched his jaw and forced himself to look away, he did his best to block out the humans vibrant presence.

“You were supposed to be traveling with the [_V'tosh ka'tur_](http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/V%27tosh_ka%27tur),  for several weeks longer before returning Sybok, to what do we owe this surprise?” he hissed.

Sybok “We? Oh yes, the esteemed Cadet James T. Kirk, I have read much of you,” he signed the ta’al, “a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last.”

Baffled, Jim saluted in return.

“I didn’t know I was so famous.”

Sybok laughs heartily, clutching his stomach as he does. He wraps an arm familiarly around Jim’s shoulders and urges him toward the seating area. The human’s mouth is stretched wide and gaping, his brows curled in confusion. “Come friend; let us grow acquainted while my brother adjusts.”

Sybok, the deceptively perceptive Vulcan that he was had noticed Spock’s rather obvious distress. Spock takes the opportunity to salvage his tenuous control while he can. He doesn’t wait to dismiss himself, knowing that Jim is utterly distracted by his brother’s grandiose presence and flees the room.

Once in his chambers he collapses to the floor, his hands curled into fists and jaw clenched so tightly that his joints pop. He exhales loudly through flared nostrils several times before bringing his forehead to rest on the cool tile.

He must initiate a brief period of meditation, _his shields must be rebuilt_. A semblance of control must be achieved, if only to last through their dinner time. More lasting and finer shielding can be constructed later; he will spend all night in deep meditation in all likelihood.

As it is now he can barely think. He doesn’t have the capabilities to discern the source of his distress, only knows it is something to do with Kirk; it cannot be simply to do with the Le Matya’s attack, _the touch of Jim’s skin_. But it is too much for him when he can barely think, let alone resist the urge to destroy _every_ object in his room.

After staggering from the water of the spring that without Jim would most certainly have been his grave, and feeling overwhelming relief at his feet touching dry sand once more Spock had paused, once more able to breathe at ease. When the welcome heat of the Vulcan sun had penetrated his waterlogged clothes he had turned to Jim.

Tanned and grinning waist deep in the spring, the sun’s rays reflecting from his golden hair Jim stood care free, no trace of their harrowing ordeal visible.

Spock’s heart had skipped a beat. The human had- Jim had saved his life, putting his own at risk. He realized then how precarious their situation had been, Jim had taken their lives into his arms in that water, he had gambled his remarkable ability for adaptation against Vulcan and won. Jim hadn’t hesitated, knowing the risks of them drowning; he had still dragged Spock into the water with him. And Spock, the Vulcan, had been so at ease that the presence of a Le Matya had gone unnoticed. It was such callous disregard for Jim’s life, how could he have- and how terrified he had been when the Le Mayta had nearly slashed Jim with its poisoned claws, it wasn’t himself he was afraid for, it was Jim.

 _Illogical_.

He had tried to reason; Jim was an alien, no different from an Orion or an Andorian. To have felt personally invested in his life was… _But Jim had_ _leapt_ , had saved him, had carried him safely through the water.

And he couldn’t stop staring because no one had _ever_ done anything like that for him in his life, and yet this alien, this human man had placed Spock’s life ahead of his, just as Spock had been willing to do for him. His fingertips had burned and his chest began to tingle.

The realization when it hits overwhelms him, and comforts him _impossibly_ at once. His shoulders quiver, his breaths calm. That strange feeling in his chest all those weeks, the blurring between professional and personal lives, Spock knows what it was- _what it_ _is_ , now.

He’d never had a real friend before.

_Until Jim._

 

 

 


	9. Well, One gets out of Bed and the planets don't always hiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> accidental shower scene +sybok's magical bilious robes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well,   
> one gets out of bed   
> and the planets don’t always hiss   
> or muck up the day, each day.   
> As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon,   
> perhaps it is a medicine   
> that will cure the soul   
> of its greed for love   
> next Thursday. 
> 
> -A. Sexton

 

          9. Well one gets out of bed and the planets don’t always hiss

 

For once Spock is grateful for his older brother when he reemerges from his self prescribed isolation. The panic is long over and Sybok has somehow procured a traditional Vulcan dinner, with what Spock can smell is his favourite tea, and has seated himself and Jim at the dining table. His brother’s plans _have_ _plans_ and he’s sure that the smart food arrangement is just another of them.

Sybok and Jim, _Sybok and Jim,_ are discussing the differences between human and Vulcan cuisine as he stands dumbly in the doorway. Spock finds himself grateful for Sybok’s demanding personality because it has Jim completely transfixed and he can’t stop staring at the human- _at his friend,_ and-

 

 

 _How inappropriate_ , Jim is eating with his fingers _again_.

 

Sybok does not seem too bothered by the human’s mistake, in fact he does nothing other than smirk knowingly and watches as Jim continues to absently lift berries from the bowl and suck them between his lips, and well, Spock had to intervene.

“ _Jim_ ,” why his voice sounds rough and wrecked he has no idea, he has no ideas about several things lately but what is this one more item? Spock will find a way to manage.

Jim’s eyes light up at the sight of Spock returning to him, “Spock, where’d you go to? Your brother made dinner.”

Sybok folds his hands and watches knowingly, eyes trained on Spock expectantly awaiting his response.

Spock overtly deflects the question, he moves to stand before Jim, shielding him from his brother’s vision; he gently pushes the bowl of berries out of Jim’s reach. “Jim…” he starts. Jim’s eyes dart between the berries and Spock, glancing towards Sybok and back again. His expression changes, _as it always does_ , he reads like an open book and Spock can see the moment he realizes that he’s done something wrong.  His shoulders stiffen, he tilts his head downward, folds his hands across his lap, hiding them from view.

How perceptive, Spock thinks.

“I may have been remiss in my teachings of proper Vulcan etiquette with you.”

Jim swallows; Spock can see that his respirations, _as they always do_ , alter. And while before he would have found his ability to read the human distressing, or at best _an asset_ for research, now he finds it only comforting. Jim’s blue eyes stare, waiting for Spock’s remonstration. But Spock will not give it, only an explanation. “On Vulcan eating with ones fingers is considered inappropriate.”

“But you let me do that all the time? I’ve always done that and you’ve never said anything before.”

Spock’s ears flush. Yes, he supposed he hadn’t said anything before, he certainly hadn’t minded until he saw Jim in front of Sybok and the twinkle in his brother’s eye. Sybok, _the fiend_ , grins, an outright grin, completely and utterly non Vulcan.  He finds it strange that Jim’s flagrant emotionalism fazes him not at all and yet one expression from his brother strikes him as alien and with unease. “To be more specific, it is not done _in company_.” Spock frowns, looking toward his brother.

Jim tracks his gaze and raises his eyebrows, working out the meaning behind Spock’s hint. His eyes narrow and his lips part slightly before pursing.

“ _Oh_.” He murmurs.

“Brother!” Sybok exclaims, clapping Spock soundly on the shoulder, “we indeed have much to discuss!” he stares at him in wonder.

Grieved, Spock realizes that his brother _may_ have reached false conclusions regarding his and Jim’s relationship. He feels nauseous and not for the first time in his brother’s presence longs for the comfort of Andorian ale.

He realizes then that he hasn’t slept in three days, and that may be why he feels so rash. He brushes off Sybok’s embrace and seats himself directly between Jim and Sybok, for numerous reasons. “Brother, there will be time enough for us to reacquaint ourselves. For now let us three enjoy our meal. It has been a tiring day for Jim and I, and long.”

He sighs and pointedly begins filling his plate with food via his chopsticks; Sybok has even managed to place his favourite tan pair on the table. Spock detests how all seeing and all knowing his brother is and takes in a mouthful of grain.

“Yes, I received and expansive retelling of your journey to Raal from Jim while you were absent. I trust that was the first time you have gone swimming Spock?”

Spock’s eyes narrow and he resists the urge to groan, _by all that is Vulcan_ he is exhausted and in no mood for this colloquial banter Sybok insists on undertaking. He looks to Jim, who is intensely and he suspects _deliberately_ focused on working his chopsticks to transfer some berries from his bowl to his mouth.  He watches, pitying the man for the unease and anxiety that holds his posture so painfully rigid as five out of his eight attempts fail, twice bursting the berries in his utensils grip.

“It was an experience that I have no desire to repeat.”

Jim manages to catch one berry in his mouth as it slips. He swallows triumphantly and then makes an aborted gesture to obtain another. Instead he neatly places the chopsticks back onto his napkin and stares at his bowel, eyes glaring and ears tinged pink.

Sybok is speaking again, “I found it to be a curious and not entirely revolting experience, though I share your desire not to repeat it.”

Spock quirked his eyebrow in agreement.

His bangs shifted restlessly. There was a tense silence while they ate, while he and Sybok ate and Jim continued to hide his face under the guise of staring resolutely at his empty table settings.

Spock sipped his tea. “Jim, if you are not hungry a plate can be prepared for your consumption at a later time,” he offered.

 Jim startled. His hair stood up at odd angles in the front. “I-” He looked to Sybok and then to Spock. “I would _really_ appreciate that.” He stood swiftly, his chest expanding through a heave of breath. “I enjoyed our meeting,” he said turning to Sybok his eyes crinkling from a small but sincere smile.

Sybok nodded in return, “I trust we will meet again soon Jim Kirk, rest peacefully.”

Spock’s eyes narrowed at the familiar way Sybok referred to Jim. They had just met not an hour ago, and already he was referring to Jim by his moniker? He had only recently just begun referring to _James T. Kirk_ as Jim.

He squished a berry of his own between his chopsticks.

No one noticed.

Jim, of his own accord, signed the ta’al.

His brother tilted his head in surprise; in fact, Spock found it hard to contain his own. He had not been sure if Jim knew the practice of meeting and departing by signing the ta’al. He had suspected that Jim had been merely mimicking the rare few occasions when Spock had seen him do it. It seems that he had underestimated the cadet’s perceptiveness.

Sybok returned the gesture and they watched as Jim turned on his heel and made his exit.

“I find him to be quite likable.” Sybok said once Jim was out of human earshot.

 

“That is the general consensus, yes.”

\---o--

 

Jim retired to his room after escaping dinner and peeled off his clothes. His skin burned and itched from a day of prolonged sun exposure and from the residue left by applying excessive amounts of T’Mir’s sun lotion. Though he had spent a solid hour in the spring Jim still ached for a shower, _not a bath_ , thank the stars he thought, that Vulcan has showers. He was in no rush to submerge himself in any liquid again for a long time. Luckily for him such a feat wasn’t exactly easy on Vulcan. His muscles were exhausted and he felt overall fatigued. He would have begged off from the dinner early even if he hadn’t embarrassed himself so thoroughly in front of Spock’s brother.

‘ _Fuck me’_ Jim thought and then colored, realizing the mistake of his curse. He wondered if that was how Sybok had interpreted his accidental display at the table. That had to be what Spock was indicating, fingers must be kinky or something to Vulcan’s.

 _What the hell_ , Jim thinks, _I made a total ass of myself._

He was so lucky that Sybok hadn’t taken things the wrong way. Part of him wonders at why Spock had _never_ said anything before but then he remembers how Spock had disapproved of his sand bathing and decided that the Vulcan had probably just been making allowances for cultural differences.

He runs his hands over his face, stopping to tug at his unruly mane. He needs to cut it, _tonight_.

Jim likes the feel of the cool floor under his bare feet as he pads gingerly into the bathroom and steps down into the lowered floor of the shower stall.

He wonders what _other_ things Spock has been remiss in teaching him of Vulcan culture?

The spray kicks up and Jim’s shoulders flex underneath the onslaught of thousands of little water droplets.

Jim feels like he’s constantly spinning around these people, just when he starts to get the hang of things something like _finger kinks_ throw him into a tail spin. And he had been thinking that he was about ready to emerge into Vulcan society.

 

_As if._

 

Not when he could be inadvertently soliciting all Vulcan’s in his proximity by, _for all he knows_ , overzealously tonguing the inside of his cheek.

He shakes his head, tossing water around the tiled stall. He takes the scentless soap (the Vulcan sense of smell is highly sensitive and they would have probably found scented soap frivolous or something) and rubs it along the tired surface of his skin. Jim palms the back of his neck, rubbing the lather into his abused muscles.

He groans _, it feels good_.

He continues the process all down his back, as far as he can reach and stops with the muscles of his ass, because _even that_ is sore.

Just because of all of that swimming, walking, fighting to stay alive; a regular day in the life of James T. Kirk.

He groans again, this time more breathy. If only it were sore from a _different_ activity.

Jim palmed himself until he felt the first stirring of arousal; he ran his fingers along his soft cock until it got hard. Nothing worked better to calm him, nothing left him feeling realized and boneless than sex, or whacking it. Some self indulgence is exactly what he needs, and that’s exactly what he’s gonna fucking get.  Jim needed it, had earned it.

Jim bucked into his hand, gasping when his touch turned just the right side of tight.

Fuck it had been a while, he was overly sensitive, The roughness of his hand felt divine against his touch starved shaft.

He squeezed his balls, gently rolling them in his hand.

 _Goddam_ , he missed having a mouth between his legs, a hot tongue licking up the shaft of his cock, soft lips mouthing at his balls, sucking them into an inviting mouth.

Fuck, _he_ _keened_ , hips stuttering into his grip.

He was getting over eager, when was the last time he’d been laid? At this rate he was going to go off like a rocket, he wouldn’t last long. He ran his thumb over the head of his leaking cock a loud gasping moan escaped him. He could hear the sounds of him fisting his cock over the shower spray.

Actually, _was he insane_? _Why_ was he trying to prolong this?

At this point, he would take anything he could get, male, female, _Vulcan_ ; he didn't really care as long as they were hot and interested. Who was he kidding, as long as they were fucking interested there would be _fucking_.

His hand moved from his balls to wrap around the base of his cock. He set a fast pace, pumping himself into his slick hand, he didn’t need lube, he had already leaked so much fucking precome-

The shower cut out suddenly, the timer on his water ration having run out.

He was being _so_ fucking loud, _too_ loud without the muffling provided by the shower- the Vulcan’s might hear him, their hearing was so much better than his and-ok, he was basically fucking his hand now.

He keened again.

 _Oh hell_ , he was too damned horny to care.

Jim found himself wondering what Spock looked like as he jerked off. Did they do that? He’d seen the bulge in Spock’s pants, knew they must have something in the works down there, wondered what it was like, tried to imagine it. He wondered if Spock would like it naked or clothed and what he looked like hard, imagined him fastidiously working it.

He grew frantic, fucking his own hand, yes, moving faster and faster and--

He stroked his dick and thought about Spock. He wondered if under all his Vulcan reserve what kind of lover Spock would be, rough, kinky, the kind that stared into your eyes as they fucked you expertly with controlled thrusts of their hips? Jim fantasized about Spock wanting him, pinning him, dropping to his knees in the shower to suck him.

_His fucking plush lips-_

That pushed him over the edge, had him cumming over the tile and his belly with a shout.

He stood their panting with this blessed out expression on his face, doped up like an idiot in his shower stall. His whole body felt boneless like jelly.

 

“Awesome,” he breathed.

 

\---o--

 

Spock and his brother had retired from dinner, which after Jim’s departure turned into a rather subdued and calm affair, to the sitting room. He noted idly that his brothers’ robes are beige and bilious and Spock imagines they hide as many things as his ostentatious persona is designed to. _As usual_ his brother had coerced him into doing something he hadn’t been keen on, which was why he was now reclined on a large floor cushion across from Sybok, sipping from a hot cup of his favourite and rather expensive tea.

 

 _Actually_ , Spock admits silently to himself, _it was the tea that had lured him from a restoring meditation._

“So dear brother, what have you been teaching that human in private?”

Spock glared, “Sybok that is hardly appropriate. Your accusations are mistaken.” he said, legs crossed, sipping on his strong pla’tak tea in their reading room.

Sybok keeps his dark eyes mischievously trained on Spock through a prolonged draught of his own.

 _Is that it?_ The slant of his brows were saying, _is that really all you have to say on that topic?_

Spock felt a muscle in his face twitch. “James Kirk and I have a purely platonic relationship.”

Sybok pursed his lips around another mouthful of pla’tak. The steam wisps danced between his eyes.

“One of professional and _at most_ a companionable nature, _nothing_ more,” he continued.

Spock refuses to answer to his responding quirk of expression. His eyebrow gave no response, his face remained impassive and Vulcan.

“Well, “ his brother changes position, folding his robes tighter around himself, “how is your work then?” It is a deflection, his brother does not give up so easily, he _never_ has.

“As expected; I am approaching a very sensitive stage in the experiments which will require more direct supervision.”

“Ah.”

Spock does not like the knowing glint in his brother’s eye.

“How long do you plan on staying with us Sybok?” His brother’s visits home were rarely for long periods of time, a week, a fortnight at most and then he would be off again on some vague mission with his Syranites, journeying to one ancient relic or some far removed destination. Certainly this visit would be no different.

Sybok rested his empty tea cup on the side table. He raised his hands emptily in a show of honesty, “Brother you know me after all. In truth I plan to be in Shikahr for some time, a fortnight at least. My people and I will be sojourning here while we make arrangements for a journey to P’Jem.”

Spock raised his eyebrow in question. “P’Jem is a traditional Vulcan temple. I find it curious that you and your people plan a journey there.”

Sybok looked smug, as if he had lead Spock to asking him the exact question he had wanted to answer. “A true understanding of Surak’s teachings cannot be reached without experiencing all interpretations. Thought we inherently believe in a more expressive and liberal practice of Surak’ s teachings we can learn and appreciate much from the popular and traditional interpretation as well.”

Spock nodded. In truth he did not care. What his brother did with his time held no bearing on his own life, what Sybok and his fellow Syranites did was no concern of his. And besides, Spock had no interest in debating and overanalyzing the boggier parts of Surakian teachings.  Spock had long ago decided that while Surak was one of his prominent heroes, he took his teachings at face value. He held no interest in overly complicating them.

“Well, “ Sybok sat up, smoothing down his rumpled and frankly unsmoothable robes, pausing before standing, ‘I believe I will take in the stars and then retire for the evening, it was a rather laborious journey from the forge.”

The forge? He raised his eyebrows, essentially gawking at his brother for willingly traveling to arguably what was the wildest landscape on Vulcan.

Spock took in the sight of his brother’s retreating back, unable to process Sybok’s daring, _The Forge_ … He admired the resolute and assured way Sybok pursued his ambitions. He lost himself in thought.

 _At the sound of a muffled cry_ Spock was roused from his musings. There were no further outbursts so he concluded that it must have been Jim slamming his right foot again as he was wont to do.

Mentally slapping himself for not taking the opportunity to escape to his chambers while he had the chance, Spock abandoned his tea and fled the room.

\---o---

 

The next morning Jim shuffled into the kitchen for breakfast, forgoing his daily workout because _dayum_ , was he sore from yesterday. He still wore this dopey grin on his face from his mind blowing orgasm in the shower the night before, still running high on, “sleep good, endorphins nice”, as he clumsily and with half lidded eyes filled himself a bowel of the closest food he could reach.

Most Vulcan food tasted so bland he couldn’t really tell _or care_ what was good or bad, though he did really like the berries from last night and those sour grapes from  a few weeks ago, but he had crushed all of those and Spock must have thought he didn’t like them because they hadn’t appeared since.

Sybok glided in on his bilious beige robes, arms raised in an expansive greeting, “Jim Kirk good morning! Did you find rest easily?”

Jim continued to grin like an idiot. _Poseidon’s Balls_ , he thought, _whatever I’m eating tastes so good in my mouth._

Sybok quirked his head, his eyebrows assessing, “Ah Jim I see you have discovered a taste for Andorian Tuber root, it is an acquired taste. My brother being the only Vulcan I know of who enjoys it.”

“Mmph?” Jim asks through a mouthful of tuber root. _Wow, it’s like sinfully good_. And it makes his mouth tingle. Jim swallows and grins wider.

“Sybok, you travel with a group called the Vahk…Vah’laksh…Va-”

“  _V'tosh ka'tur_ ,” Sybok interjected.

The Vulcan, who had experimentally bitten a piece of his own root and finding it distasteful folded it in a napkin and discretely disposed of it within his sleeves, raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I do.”

“Can I meet them?” Jim asks. And wow, is he allergic to this root? Because his body is starting to feel warm and tingly. He raises his hand, looking at his open palm for answers.

Sybok laughs heartily. “Ah, my human friend, great minds think alike. I myself wanted to breach that very topic with you this morning. It would be my pleasure to introduce you to my fellow brothers and sisters.”

Jim isn’t having trouble breathing, so he doesn’t think he’s allergic to Andorian tuber root. But it’s definitely doing something to his systems. _Hrm._ He gambles on finishing their conversation before making an emergency call to T’Mir. He should be fine as long as he doesn’t seize.

He tries to make himself look intelligent and thoughtful, sits himself up properly and folds his hands before him on the table.

 _Wait… Oh shit_ , he’d been eating with his hands in front of Sybok again.

Jim eyeballs Spock’s brother, who only looks at him expectantly. _Huh_ , maybe he hadn’t noticed? _Nah_ , he totally had, Jim had been like _gnawing_ on that root when he’d waltzed into the kitchen like a dog with a chew toy. He’d had his kinky fingers wrapped all around it.

Obviously Sybok didn’t care, or he liked it, or maybe-

 _Holy shit_ -Jim was drunk.

What was he saying?

 _Oh yeah_ , “I think it would be rewarding to meet Vulcan’s other than Spock. While he has been a nurturing influence during my adjustment period I feel that prolonged socialization with but one citizen will form biased impressions of Vulcan.”

Sybok practically wiggled, his eyebrows curled with pleasure. “We can arrange for a meeting at your convenience, I know my brothers and sisters will be eager to make your acquaintance.”

“Excellent,” Jim replied, impulsively picking up the bowel of tuber root and placing it down again.

 _Cochrane’s Warp Engine!_ He was drunk as a skunk before ten in the morning like a closet alcoholic.

“Cadet Kirk?”

Had he said that aloud?

“Could you please contact physician T’Mir of the VSA?”

Sybok stood swiftly, taking a step towards Jim. “Are you ill?”

Jim jumped off his stool, tuber root in hand and stood dramatically. Where did they keep the communicators? In fact, why didn’t Jim have one of his own? “I am having an adverse reaction to the Andorian Tuber Root Sybok.”

“Where is my brother? We must inform him of your condition.” Sybok scrutinized the man before him, his pupils were dilated, his face wore a lax somewhat pleased expression, he kept making impulsive gestures and posture changes.

“No, no it’s fine!  I think I’m just drunk,” he said spreading his arms wide. “Or maybe high?” He added quizzically.

Sybok watched as Jim placed the root under his nose, loudly sniffing it. “I see,” The Vulcan said and reached into his robes, withdrawing a communicator. Jim was responding to a chemical in the tuber root, that much was for certain.

Jim threw himself at Sybok as the comm opened a channel to physician T’Mir. “Sybok you can take me to see T’Mir, don’t tell Spock, let’s just go together, we can bond, it’s not even serious- oh hey T’Mir!” he babbled

Sybok’s face convulsed at Jim’s behavior. The human’s arm was wrapped companionably around his shoulder and had snatched the comm from his fingers, shouting loudly into it.

“Jim Kirk? Is this an emergency? Why has Spock not contacted me? Are you under duress?” T’Mir’s lilting voice questioned.

“T’Mir, I ate Andorian Tuber Root,” Jim replied, waving the root wildly before him, nearly poking Sybok in the eye with it. He snatched the root form Kirk’s grasp and deposited it inside his robes. “I’m inebriated, or delusional? I’m having a reaction, you should examine me.”

“I see. I will prepare the medbay. Sybok, bring him here at once.”

The comm link cut out.

The human draped over him began slapping his back enthusiastically. Sybok noted that as time passed Jim became more impulsive, perhaps the root was having a cumulative effect on his systems? He realized that getting Jim to the medbay may require some effort. He paused to consider his options.

Jim began looking surreptitiously around the kitchen. “Sybok, we should go out the back and circle around, Spock will never see us and then-”

Sybok cut him off with a nerve pinch to the shoulder.

\---o---

Jim woke up as usual on his back in the medbay, wearing pants _thankfully_ and surprisingly not to T’Mir’s face hovering over his, but Sybok’s.

He blinked. “Hello, did I make an ass of myself again?”

Sybok chuckled, upsetting the lab assistants. Their eyebrows dipped, expressing their displeasure at his blatant emotionalism. “In truth your predicament was rather amusing Jim Kirk.”

“Oh, “ Jim replied, “thanks I guess.” He sat up, noticing that T’Mir was waving her scanner over his crotch. Did he even want to know?

T’Mir sensed his gaze and began speaking, eyes never leaving the data that was scrolling down her screen. “Kirk, the tuber root affected your sperm production. It has decreased by 45%.

Sybok and T’Mir stared severely at his blanketed crotch.

“However, it should return to normal once the tuber root clears your body.”

At that moment the medbay doors swung open, and Spock strode purposefully through. His appearance was stern as he approached physician T’Mir.

Jim’s stomach dropped. It would be a repeat of the shatarr incident; Spock would see him lying on the medical bed and for whatever reason shun him all over again. It was exactly why he had wanted Sybok to come with him and not his brother. His heart beat raced, his jaw quivered.

Spock murmured something to T’Mir, beckoning her aside.

Before following her he stood at the foot of the bed, staring at Jim. He smiled, a small one, a Vulcan smile, with the eyes and not the mouth, but a true smile. “It is good to see you Jim,” he said, and followed after T’Mir.

Jim gaped like a fish out of water.

Sybok adjusted his robes. “I must be going Jim Kirk, my brother will see you home. If you wish to contact me he will give you the proper information.”

Jim nodded and waved.

Sybok beamed. “Live long and prosper.” He said and whirled away, flowing through the medbay doors like a man on a goddam mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eugh sorry I'm getting bad at updating, I need to map out how the next few chapters will be and I'm stuck atm. 


	10. V'tosh Ka'tur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vulcan's without logic

 

 

          10 _V'tosh ka'tur (Vulcan’s without Logic)_

 

Spock was tying up his latest report to the VSA in his lab when a knock sounded on the door. Jim could never seem to comprehend that the chime was a simpler way to announce ones presence. “Enter.” He answered, turning in his char to face his guest.

Jim entered shyly, peeking his head through first, hiding his arms behind his back. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” he had just been thinking of taking a break, and Jim was a welcome distraction for his report.

“Good,” Jim said, closing the door and taking several tentative steps toward him, “I have something I want to show you.”

Spock raised his eyebrow.

Jim approached his desk cautiously and it was then that he realized that Jim was not hiding his arms from view, but an object within them. Once at the table Jim produced a checkered board, and placed it before him.

“What is this?”

Jim upended the contents of a small cloth bag onto the desk.

“On Earth we call it Chess; it’s a game of logic and strategy.”

Spock picked up one of the smooth black stones, noting the crown etched into its surface. He felt his eyes crinkle in mirth. “Am I right to assume you wish to teach me?”

Jim grinned. “Yeah, do you want me to?”

“I am agreeable.”

\---o---

Jim meets Sybok at the corner restaurant, two lefts down the road from the street that the lane to their house lead to. It would have been easier to just draw him a map. Jim walks into the small café, immediately tipping back his hood and goggles, struggling to adjust his eyes and spot Sybok in the crowded eatery. Vulcans sit at all the tables and wait in an orderly line at one counter that seemingly makes drinks.

“Jim Kirk!” Sybok’s loud voice booms.

Jim spots him on the far left wall, standing guard over a small table he must have annexed at an earlier time. Judging by the looks other Vulcans send him and going by what Jim knows of Sybok, they more likely surrendered the territory to him.

“Sybok!” Jim greets, flashing him a dazzling toothy grin. He saunters over to the table and deposits his veil on the back of his chair, unzipping his flightsuit and tying off the arms around his waist. He pockets the new pair of gloves Spock gifted him with, makes sure to zip them safely in, he doesn’t want to lose them, they’re even nicer than his old pair and it makes him feel all warm and fuzzy inside when he thinks of Spock shopping for him.

Sybok folds his hands neatly on the table before him. “I took the liberty of ordering a meal for us.”

Jim sees it and notes with pleasure that those little grape things he likes so much are among the assortment. “That’s fine,” he replies, and promptly eats one. They must be imports.

They eat and make small talk, Jim enjoying immensely being out in public again after so long. The white noise of the crowded room and the movement of the customers reminds him of being home. This is finally something normal, this is something he can do on his own if he wanted, and it means life can be livable for him on Vulcan if he needs it to be. He would just have to get used to all the Vulcans watching him wherever he went. Right now it was, “fascinating, the human!” But eventually it would be, “never mind the human, pass the Plomeek broth.” Eventually the novelty had to wear out right? 

“Do you still entertain a desire to meet my associates?”

Jim is stumbled out of his musing by Sybok’s sudden question. “Yes, of course. As soon as possible in fact.”

Sybok arches an eyebrow. Jim continues on. “Well, it’s just, it’s difficult to relate to Vulcans. Humans are so expressive, like you, “ Jim gestures, “and-“

Sybok interjects, “You believe you can find fellowship with us.”

“Exactly.”

It is at that moment that the padd in his knapsack, the one he keeps tucked behind his very own miniature aide kit, chimes. Jim is surprised; the only people who would contact him are Spock and T’Mir. He reaches to withdraw the device.

Sybok takes that opportunity to message the V’tosh ka’tur. If he recalls correctly several of them are browsing the market nearby.

Jim’s eyes narrow and light up as he scrutinizes the message sent to him.  It is from a vulcan called, ‘Koss’, and Engineer of the Vulcan Science Academy. His eyes rapidly scan through the message, picking out the minute number of words he can readily recognize. Jim’s literacy is improving but the contents of the message are foggy at best. He excuses himself and exits the café, ducking under his veil in a corner by the entrance. He switched the text to audio translator and listens.

Jim’s heart speeds up. Koss, and his assistant…Voss? Are requesting his assistance in translating the Enterprises components! It’s- Jim takes a deep breath and replays the message, no he’d heard correctly. It’s so exciting he can’t wait to tell Spock. This is exactly the chance he’d been waiting for.

Jim rushes back inside, narrowly avoiding bumping into a stout vulcan woman.

“Sybok,” he gasps, heavily throwing himself down onto his chair. He flips the veil off his forehead, and then notices that the person he sits across from is not Spock’s older brother.

“Excuse me!” Jim blurts and moves to stand.  He feels slightly racist, what the hell had he been thinking, that this guy across from him was Sybok, it’s not like all vulcans look alike. I mean they all have the eyebrows, the bowl cuts, the same greenish complexion- this guy, ok he was missing the bowl cut, his hair was tied loosely above his neck, and sure Jim mostly couldn’t see his eyebrows under his long side bangs - who did he think he was a musketeer? - but he was at least of the green complexion, if not tanner than Spock, though Spock was arguably a recluse, albeit a fit one and-

That’s when he notices that Sybok is actually sitting next to him.

Goddam, maybe the heat is getting to him.

Sybok gently coaxes Jim back into his seat. His padd clacks against the table, forgotten for now. “Jim this is one of my colleagues, N’Veyan.”

The Vulcan before him nods, his lower eyelids crinkling in a smile. Jim wonders at his skin tight metallic lavender suit.

“Greetings James T. Kirk, it is pleasing to meet you at last. We of the V’tosh ka’tur have heard much of you.”

“I’ve been hearing a lot about your group. I think we may have much in common.” Jim replies, pushing the platter of food toward N’Veyan in a friendly gesture.

Shortly after more of Sybok’s friends arrive, one stout male named Radzhek, and another a darker (wow Jim is an ass he seriously believed that all vulcans had the same skin tone. Jupiter’s cock what is wrong with him?) fit Vulcan with short cropped hair and lidded eyes named Tuvok. They all cram into the seating space and order more food, which is probably the only reason they haven’t been kicked out because they entirety of the café looks displeased to see the Vahklasian’s.

Oh well, that’s how the entirety of Iowa felt about Jim and his white trash genius ass before he joined up with UNAD.

“You know,” Jim says between bite of tuber root, “if our situations were reversed, and it was a Vulcan who landed on Earth, they would do horribly.”

Four eyebrows arch indignantly.

Jim backpedals. “I mean a traditional Vulcan would do horribly. You all would find it much easier, on Earth, emotions are key. Trying to get by without them would be like trying to appreciate art blind.”

Jim swallows his tuber root. Yeah, that wasn’t exactly eloquent. He’s had enough, he decides, and shoves the root towards Sybok.

The Vulcan disposes of it within his robes, per usual.

Seriously, he must have an entire arsenal stashed in there.

Tuvok’s mouth curves slightly upward in a smirk.  “I see your point. And if ever the day comes when our people are able to visit yours I am sure it will give them quite the shock.”

Jim likes Tuvok, he’s been Vulcan smiling at him the entire time and complementary things to say to him. Jim likes flattery, keep it coming, he thinks, it will get you everywhere.

Sybok clears his throat and stands, nodding to Radzhek. “This has been an enthralling afternoon my friends, but we must be going. Our shuttle to P’Jem leaves this evening.”

Jim’s eyebrows wiggle quizzically.

Sybok rests a hand heavily on his shoulder, which makes Jim flinch, something about Sybok’s hands so close to the junction between his neck and shoulder make him uneasy, but he can’t remember why. “I will see you again Jim Kirk.”

All at once the party stands. N’Veyan gestures goodbye to him and they begin to leave Tuvok turns to him and hands him a business card of sorts.

“This is our address in the city,” he states, “not all of our party will be leaving tonight with Sybok, I for one will remain behind for some time. If you were to be our guest I would be most pleased.”

The vulcan’s eyes glint, and something in the way he looks at Jim so intimately makes the blood in his stomach rush south.

His cock twitches and begins to fill.

Ok shit, Jim thinks, and takes the card from Tuvok, looking away in embarrassment. He feels his ears turn red. Goddamit. Well at least the trousers of his flightsuit are roomy.

“I’ll make sure to stop by,” he says, and watches the party walk away.

\---o---

It's not that Jim wasn't spectacular at chess, he was, but how the hell was Spock already so good?

“Checkmate," the Vulcan's deep voice resonated.

 

Jim stared aghast. "This is ridiculous, you just learned how to play not three days ago, how can you already be beating me?"

 

Spock sat back in his recliner, pressing the points of his fingers together. "It is a simple matter of learning the rules of each piece and a basic understanding logic."

 

Jim frowned, collecting the pieces and placing them back into the cloth bag. "Basic understanding?" he mimicked.

 

Spock frowned, "I believe that is what I said."

 

No one had beaten Jim so easily since the academy, in fact the only person who had was Chekov, the adorable bastard. Jim's reputation was at stake, if he ever got back to Earth and word got out that he had been so thoroughly trounced by an alien heads would roll. "Give me a day to work out a new strategy. I'll have your head spinning Spock."

 

The Vulcan quirked an eye brow. "I do not know why me head would spin, as it is attacked to my shoulder and such an action would man my demise. However I will give you your day to prepare for your second attempt."

 

Jim growled, the Vulcan bastard, sassing him so smoothly from his easy chair. "It’s a deal!" he proclaimed, holding out his hand to shake on it.

 

Spock merely glanced at his open palm and then back at Jim.

 

"Oh, right, you don't..." Jim waggled his hand and withdrew it to his side, "because fingers are kinky."

 

"Kinky?"

 

"Sexually arousing."

 

Spock's ears flushed. "Where did you get that idea? They are only highly sensitive, Vulcan's do not have ‘finger kinks’ as you so crudely put it.”

 

“Yeah, but some could.” Jim retorted.

 

“I do not take it upon myself to learn of other Vulcan’s sexual proclivities.”

 

“Ah ha!” Jim grinned, “So you admit that you have them!”

 

Spock stood brusquely. He looked minorly agitated, which meant Jim could push him just a bit further before he disappeared to his lab for hours on end. “I believe you are delusional, have you been eating tuber root again?”

 

Yes, but he wasn’t telling Spock that.

 

"Ahahaha!" Jim cackled. He was totally right about Spock being a repressed nerd. 

 

Spock sits, stewing in his metaphorical juices for a moment before speaking to change the topic. “Tell me Jim, I did not meet you once today, were you not in the vicinity?”

Jim again deposits himself onto his chair, still warm from him and kicks his legs rudely up onto the table.

Meh. Like Spock will say anything other than ‘fondly annoyed eyebrow raise.’

Spock raises an eyebrow is response to his poor manners, he looks fondly annoyed.

“Sybok graciously escorted me into greater Shikahr for a brief tour and lunch.”

“Oh?”

Jim continues speaking,  “and then set up a meeting with this Vulcan named Koss who is analyzing the Enterprise. He and his assistant are working on the Enterprise and want me to consult on it.”

Spock sits foreward, “Fascinating, Koss is the lead engineer assigned to analyzing and repairing your spacecraft, he is also one of the most accomplished engineers on Vulcan. They must have reached a delicate point in their work to be approaching you for assistance.”

Jim purses his lips and nods, he doesn’t say how excited he was at seeing the Enterprise again, about working on the ship. Because if Koss and Voss (or whoever) wanted his help to remap the flight plan and find the home coordinates, to translate some shit, then that meant if they succeeded, Jim could go home.

“Oh!” Jim exclaimed, snapping his fingers, “Sybok wanted me to tell you he left early for P’Jem with some of the…” Jim looked around the room, trying to find the name for Sybok and his Vulcans without logic, “…others,” he settled on, their name was too goddam complicated for him to remember without a flash card.

“V’tosh ka’tur,” Spock offered, “or Vahklasians.”

“Vahklasians,” Jim parroted.

“Correct.”

“Well not all of them are leaving with Sybok, one of them left me this card to get into their house in Shikarr and asked me to come visit. You know, it almost felt like I was with humans when I met them today, it was almost comforting.”

Something was happening to Spock’s face. The Vulcan froze, looking off to the side before straitening his spine and limbs while they had before rested laxly and in familiar positions. The corner of his mouth convulsed. Jim watched as his eyes darkened and his chest expanded.

“Jim you must understand that it is dangerous to meet with the V’tosh ka’tur alone. They lack control; they are dangerous even to other Vulcans.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed and his posture began to tense with the first signs of annoyance. “They just express their emotions, how is that dangerous? I do the same.”

One of Spock’s hands trembled. He lowered it to grip the arm rest. “There are reasons that Vulcan’s practice strict control of their emotions. Logic helps us retain control. We were not always logical people James; we were once barbaric emotional, violent people. Without logic those traits still lie close to the surface of each Vulcan. You are a human Jim, already at a disadvantage when compared to a Vulcan of logical and control, when confronted by a rogue Vahklasian you could be…harmed.”

The ‘frail human,’ that was Jim Kirk was having a hard time buying what Spock was trying to sell him. There was something Spock wasn’t telling.

 He was feeling annoyed and insulted and that obviously wasn’t Spock’s intent so he was trying to get a handle on himself and not say anything or do anything rash (though that was sort of encoded into his DNA). And so he blurted, “I’m impulsive and emotional, am I barbaric?”

Spock looked lost, uncapable of seeing exactly where this conversation was running away to. These things didn’t happen very often to Vulcan’s. “No, Jim, you are not barbaric. I would not insinuate such a thing, but the Vulcan’s without logical cannot be trusted with your safety-”

“I can take care of myself,” Jim hissed.

You always do this Jim, get a hold of yourself, this isn’t like before on Earth you don’t have to compensate for anything, stop getting pissed off, just listen to Spock. Jim’s thoughts raced, he felt conflicted. The Vahklasians were the closest thing to human that he had encountered since landing on this desert planet, he needed the interactions that they could give him. Why didn’t Spock get that?

Spock brow was furrowed; it was obvious at this point that he was as frustrated as Jim felt. “That much is clear. However, there are certain areas in which you lack understanding- without Sybok’s supervision I cannot allow you contact them.”

He knew he was overreacting by getting annoyed, mad, but there was a deep furrow between how he knew he was supposed to react and what felt like his natural response to being misunderstood, the underdog, threatened, alone-

 “I AM NOT A CHILD!” Jim roared and stood so violently and suddenly that the chair beneath him rocked.

He had been swallowed by indignant rage as sudden as a clap of thunder. He stood, every muscle tensed, vibrating with emotion glaring at Spock, waiting for the Vulcan to respond, to mitigate his anger, to do something.

The Vulcan’s eyes darted, as if searching Jim’s face for a clue. Spock just stood there staring. It made Jim angry.

In two sudden strides Jim had bridged the distance separating them.

What was the correct response here? He could not comprehend why Jim was so offended, why he was so disproportionately angry. Spock was only taking his best interests into consideration; he was trying to keep Jim safe. If one of the V’tos ka’tur harmed him in an outburst, if, science forbid it, one attempted a mind meld with him- 

“Do something!” Jim shouted, raising his hand again to do he didn’t know what. To gesture wildly, to shake him (certainly not to hit him again, oh god Jim was going to be so ashamed of himself for that later).

Spock must have thought the action had violent intentions and snatched Jim’s hand from the air, hand grasping onto his wrist like a vice. Jim’s eyes darted to the contact, skin to skin. He could have sworn there was a strange tingling, something against his wrist, something in the back of his head. They were very close, only a foot away from each other. And Spock was staring at him, his eyes focused and sharp like a hawks.

Jim was quivering from adrenaline and shame and anger and he leaned in slightly and hissed, full of self loathing and agony, “Who’s the barbarian now?”

And then Spock was grabbing his shoulders and jerking him round, knocking him into the back of the chair and pressing him in tight, jolting him. “Cease,” he commanded.

Jim jutted his jaw and opened his mouth to protest, to speak, to something so Spock jerked him roughly.

The Vulcan’s voice was rough and low and the look he fixed Jim with was a plea when he commanded again, “Cease.”

Jim felt himself deflate, and if Spock had been Bones he would have thrown himself into his arms and just cried his pain away but as it was this wasn’t his best friend, this was Spock and he couldn’t do that. The tears began to prick his eyes; Jim looked away, trying to hide the reaction from Spock.

“Jim-”

Jim sniffed, “No!” he pleaded and shrugged away from him, reeking of shame.

\---o---

Spock knew he had failed Jim somehow. That first desperate grasp at his naked wrist had told him as much. Skin to skin, and so close, with Jim’s emotions bleeding from him, and with Spock in a minor state of distress - what was wrong with his friend? what had he said to upset Jim? - it would have been impossible for him to not read anything from their contact. It was painful, an age old wound, a touched nerve, an open aching sore, guilt, shame, anger, so much guilt, anguish…

Spock had thought to go after Jim, he heard him slam the door as he dashed from the house. But it was only a thought of protocol. How could he go after Jim, when it was he who had opened the wound?

\---

Pfft, Jim hissed as he stalked from their household. The wind was picking up and it whipped the veil covering his face. Stupid Spock and his logical bullshit. Jim was a goddam adult, not an infant; He could make his own decisions, his own acquaintances, his own fucking decisions. How dare Spock try to patronize him. Sanctimonious bastard.

He’s looking out for your safety, a voice inside him said,

Or he’s just a prejudiced asswipe, he retorted.

Spock should have been happy for me; I’m trying to build a life for myself. He should have encouraged me to build independence and instead Spock was angry, had disapproved.

Probably disappointed.

He thinks I can’t take care of myself.

Probably thinks I’m incompetent, sure he says I can take care of myself in the wilderness, but when it comes to delicate matters I need a babysitter, “I require guidance, “ he complained, in a mock version of Spock’s voice.

He rounded a corner and continued his stalk down the path toward greater Shikahr. He’d fucked up again, as usual and without Bones around to anchor him he would certainly do it again. Jobs, expeditions, work was one thing, but people were messy. But if he had been better, if he’d had control over his emotions- uhg.

What was he, a Vulcan?

Fuck, he hadn’t acted like this in years, he knew Spock was only looking for his best interests; nothing he’d said was a reflection of his feelings for Jim. He didn’t need to feel threatened by Spock, why had he reacted that way?

Spock had told him something he didn’t want to hear and he’d felt threatened, he’d felt like a bumbling child, incapable of making informed decisions. And he’d felt hurt and embarrassed, when all he had wanted in truth was Spock’s approval.

Logically he knows it must have some part to do with the extremity of his situation. As good as he thinks he’s doing, he is still under an above average level of stress. The anxiety he frequently feels during social interactions (which he had never experienced before) is an indication of that.

And yet, what had he done? Thrown a tantrum like a toddler and cried his way out of the house like a teenage girl.

Jim’s throat convulses as he rounds a sandy street corner, ducking his head from several passing Vulcans. His eyes dart and he raises a hand to cover his already veiled mouth.

Don’t cry, Don’t cry. His eyes sting, it’s not something he’s proud of.

Impulse control was Jim’s Achilles heel, and if he couldn’t get a hold on it then he would continue to make an ass of himself. He sees from the corner of his eye that he’s arrived at his destination, the location the Vahklasians had been staying in. He takes a few deep breaths trying to calm himself; to put a stop to his overreaction.

“Okay,” Jim approached the entryway and waves the key pass Tuvok had given him earlier and showed himself in, passing confidently through the sliding doors. Once inside he throws off his veil pockets his gloves and slides his goggles onto his forehead.

“Hello?” he calls, finding himself alone in the dimly lit foyer. He notices a strange potted cactus that hadn’t been there before.

Jim resists the urge to poke it.

The subtle shuffling of Vulcan robes interrupts the silence surrounding him. N’Veyan appears from a darkened archway, he moves fluidly into the light, his body shifting beneath a form fitting suit. He looks pleased beneath his long bangs, though the telltale Vulcan brows are hidden by strands of long dark hair, the subtle crinkle of the eyelids and upward tilt to the mouth are obvious enough to Jim. N’Veyan folds his hands before him, resting them on the smooth turquoise fabric of his suit. The Vulcan nods in his direction, “Jim Kirk,” he says by way of greeting.

Jim smiles shyly. “Hi,” he waves.

He doesn’t know why he is so nervous about visiting what is essentially a colony of Vulcan hippies. Christ, they don’t even gawk when he laughs or makes jokes. Sybok encourages him; in fact he’s seen Sybok do the same. What the hell, Jim is an extrovert, why does he suddenly feel like he’s trying to sit at the popular kids table in the lunch room?

 “Is your visit of an official or personal matter? I admit I had hoped you would come for the latter.” N’Veyan questions.

Flaming Warp Coils, Jim thinks, I’m in with the popular kids.

“Personal,” he replies and strides confidently after N’Veyan as he leads them to a separate chamber through an opposing archway.

 

\---o---

Dangerous my ass, Jim thinks as he drinks from a rather strong cup of Vulcan tea. He eyes the tuber root across from him. The group of Vulcans has taken him in without question, in fact they are as eager to have him as Sybok had originally suggested. Jim is flattered, he preens only a bit. He sits beside Tuvok on the cushioned floor of a sitting room with several others, Radzhek, L’Nel, S’chn, N’Veyan, as they switch causally between topics. It’s strange being surrounded by people who occasionally crack a smile and make attempts at humor (stressing attempt). They talk at great length about how difficult it is for Vulcans to express emotions without feeling overwhelmed.

“The impression I got was that Vulcan’s didn’t experience strong emotions?” Jim blurts.

N’Veyan nods and twiddles his thumbs. “That is the impression we would like to give other-worlders, however it is a farce. Vulcan’s experience deep, strong rooted emotions however we lack the means to both express and experience them. This is why you see our people as reserved and unfeeling. They restrain themselves in maintain control.”

Jim nods minutely, recalling Spock and T’Vorra.

“What comes so easily for you Jim Kirk, is a daily struggle for us.” N’Veyan finishes.

Several others of their little gathering nod in agreement.

Huh, well that explains a lot.

I knew Spock was terrified in Raal, he thinks, and then squashes the thought down. He doesn’t want to think of Spock right now, at all.

Tuvok plies him with more tea and Jim gives into his urges and reaches for the tuber root, taking a conservative bite. He doesn’t want a repeat of last time.

Warmth surrounds him, a low voice whispers in his ear, “Jim Kirk, Might I speak with you in a separate room?” It’s Tuvok.

N’Veyan shoots them a look, its message unreadable to Jim.

“Sure,” he says, and stands to follow the Vulcan from the room.

Tuvok leads him down the hall, past the foyer and into a side chamber. It seems to be a solarium of some kind, it’s full of potted cacti and other desert plants and a large divan stands beneath a low set window.

“Are you in an intimate relationship with S’chn T’gai Spock?”

Jim’s eyes narrow in question.

Tuvok steps closer to him, “Sybok explained that his brother allows you to mouth your fingers before him.”

“I-I” Jim stuttered, “What is with you Vulcans and fingers?”

Tuvok pressed in close, his fingers brushing along Jim’s temple. He shuddered, locking eyes with Tuvok. “Allow me to show you,” he whispered. The Vulcan guided one of Jim’s hands to palm his crotch, his fingers trailed from Jim’s temple to the opening between Jim’s parted lips.

Jim’s pupils dilated, he flushed, warmth spreading low in his belly. He parted his mouth to take Tuvok’s fingers in, sucking them.

Tuvok shuddered, a low gasp escaped him.

Jim’s tongue curled around the digits.

“Vulcan fingers are highly sensitive,” Tuvok hissed, his hips stuttering into Jim’s hand. He could feel the Vulcan begin to harden beneath his palm.

Jim sucked Tuvok’s middle finger in, swirled his finger suggestively around it and then withdrew it with a wet pop. “That explains a few things.”

The Vulcan’s eyes were lidded. “Jim Kirk-”

“Jim.”

“-I have a proposition, I-”

“I’m in,” he said, and closed the distance between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehhh, randomly triggered and angsty jim?
> 
> Also: The V'tosh Ka'tur (Vulcan's without logic) are from an episode of Enterprise, they were basicaly hippies from Vulcan and i totally stole so many names from them. >.>


	11. Tuvok

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And yet…  
> His life is half as bright without Jim in it.

 

 

            11 Tuvok

 

"God," Jim husks, thrusting his hips up. "Do all of your hands feel that good?"

Tuvok lifts himself off of Jim for a moment to pull his pants down, exposing his heavy green cock. By all that was beautiful and scientific Jim was ever so thankful that Vulcan’s had dicks after all. Especially after last night, Jim could still feel the phantom ache leftover from Tuvok fucking him. He felt his body spasm around its emptiness.

“Possibly, though I cannot speak for my whole species,” Tuvok replies and slides his slicked fingers up the length of Jim’s leaking length. He takes care to brush over the sensitive head, making Jim gasp and buck against him. The Vulcan’s fingers leave a tingling in their wake, a little something extra specific to their biology, it’s just a hand, that feels fucking divine as it wraps around him, tightening and pistoning over the shaft, exquisite as delicate long fingers brush over the sensitive underside of his sack, but if feels like _more_.

When they come back together, Tuvok licks a stripe along Jim’s jaw, playfully nipping at the juncture by his ear.

“Guh.” Jim gushes when the Vulcan’s finger press against the spot behind his balls. He reaches around, wrapping his arms around Tuvok’s neck and drawing him in for a proper human kiss.

The Vulcan responds in fervor, teeth nipping at Jim’s plush red kissed lips. Jim licks in; swiping over Tuvok’s canine before brushing across his tongue. The Vulcan rumbles.

Jim’s hand searches, gropes blindly, there is no way in hell he is breaking this kiss, until he hits pay dirt. He find’s Tuvok’s hand and before the Vulcan can protest Jim brings it up between them. He fixes Tuvok with a heavy lidded look, makes him watch as he slips his middle and index fingers past his lips, keeps looking even as he curls his tongue over the pads of those sensitive fingers and sucks them past the knuckles into his mouth.

Tuvok groans and ruts his hips against him. The hot length of his cock slides over Jim’s hip, and Jim thinks that’s not right, this could be _so much better_ and moves to line them up. Tuvok gets the hint and slides them together. Jim moans around the lengths in his mouth, knows the vibrations will feel the same to Tuvok as if it were his _actual_ dick between his lips, and bucks his hips up again in search of that sweet friction.

“Jim.” Tuvok groans, supporting himself on one hand and securing them together with another, he sets them into rhythm, hips grinding, sliding along one another, all the while Jim's sucking away at him like he’s being paid for it-and Tuvok doesn’t break eye contact, _holy shit_ is that hot in a weird serial killer way, and Jim _can’t_ , it’s _so_ hot, his eyes are so _dark_ -

Tuvok shudders and comes with a long drawn out groan. Jim can feel the hot splatter of his come all over his belly. He works his hips through his orgasm and pulls his wet fingers from Jim’s mouth.

He groans at their loss.

Jim’s mouth is open and panting when Tuvok rests his head on Jim’s shoulder, shoulders heaving as he comes down from the high. Jim’s dick feels like it’s about to burst and Tuvok is a hot weight above him. He needs to come, if he could just- he snakes a hand between them, hoping to wrap his hand around his dick, finish himself off, maybe come on Tuvok’s belly-fuck that would be hot. Tuvok halts his progress by darting up to kiss him fully on the mouth. Jim grunts in surprise. Then the Vulcan does something Jim didn’t expect and dives into place between Jim's legs.

“Yesss.” Jim sighs, when Tuvok’s lips wrap around his leaking cock.

\---o---

Spock could not find sleep that night. Spock could not find solace in his experiments that night either. He spent the sunless hours fretting like a mother over an ailing child. He sat in his laboratory waiting to hear the familiar slide and click of the front door, to hear Jim’s muffled curses are he stumbled out of his heavy leather boots.

Was Jim ok?

How would the Vahklasian's care for him, what if he had a medical ailment? Would they know to contact T’Mir?

There he was again, thinking of Jim like as incompetent child. He would know to contact T’Mir if anything went wrong, he had done it before. _“I can take care of myself.”_ He remembers the way Jim had looked when he had hissed those words at him, injured, incredulous, because he should have know not to insinuate such a thing to Jim Kirk. The man who had survived a failed warp and planetary collision, who had staved off a Le Matya, survived a shatarr bite, adapted to living on an _alien_ world.

Spock reached out for the beaker and sipped past its rim. Andorian ale, his darkest vice.

They were friends, and he was Jim’s main contact, his primary point of support and social interaction. Logically Spock’s opinions of him and input were of larger value than others. It had taken hours for Spock to admit that he may have, that he had in part, been tactless and that the human’s outburst had been in part his fault. It could have at least been prevented.

And now he was slouched over his contraband ale like a sloth waiting on bated breath for his human to return home.

And do what then, apologize for his conduct?

And allow Jim to continue to visit the V’tosh ka’tur? Despite the danger he knew Jim would be in if the appropriate circumstances occurred, he most undoubtedly would. The emotional support that they could offer Jim was unparalleled by anything Spock could give.

The beaker shatters in his grip. Spock shouts in alarm. Neon blue droplets of ale splatter over his pristine work bench, the alcohol stings where it enters the open cuts on his palms and _fingers_. Green blood seeps out, painting the glass shards embedded in his flesh, some drops to the table below, mixing in with the blue of the ale. He grits his teeth and holds his hand immobile above the mess he’s created. _It burns_ , the sensitive nerves in his fingers are over stimulated, he blocks out the pain; his uninjured hand reaches for the tweezers he keeps in one of the cubbies. 

\---o---

Spock falls asleep, apparently, on the couch in the study, his injured hand bandaged and propped on the head rest above. He wakes, stiff and uncomfortable with an acrid taste in his mouth (from the Andorian ale no doubt) with a persistent ache radiating down his arm. The wound will take no more than two days to heal, in truth it is merely superficial, the pain comes from it being, unfortunately, in one of his bodies more sensitive areas.

Suddenly, blinking he remembers Jim.

Had he come home?

Spock stumbles to his feet and lets them carry him to Jim’s rooms. He knocks and waits, only barely, before letting himself in, the need to check on Jim too great to be postponed. The bed is empty, the air smells stale; the cadet has not been here since yesterday. Spock, defeated, closes the door and turns his back to it. Well. He realizes then that he has slept past morning and makes his way to the kitchen to make some semblance of a meal and to wash the acrid flavor from his mouth.

It is precisely when his back is turned, injured hand held aloft like a scepter as he rummages through the food storage that he hears the sounds of Jim entering. Spock whirls, surprise evident on every feature. He wonders at the picture he must make, a wide eyed Vulcan, eyebrows arched, hand bandaged and hovering at an awkward angle and oh- he has a bottle of juice in his other hand.

Spock looks between Jim and the bottle of juice, he means to put it down, away, somewhere but Jim is looking at him.

Spock looks back.

Jim blinks.

His injured hand throbs

Jim’s lip quivers. His eyes narrow in on the bandages.

Spock is _still_ holding the juice.

“What happened to your hand?” Jim asks. He appears tense, like he’s speaking with Spock against his better judgment and Spock, he finally rests the bottle on the counter top.

“A lab accident, the wounds are superficial in nature,” he lies.

“Vulcan hands are very sensitive.” Jim states in question.

“The pain is only minor,” he lies again. Vulcans do not lie, why is he lying?

“Right.” Jim turns, the pant legs of his flight suit swishing as he legs move. Normally Jim would have it tied off at his waist, exposing his tanned muscled abdomen after returning from an outdoor expedition. Today he wears his full suit, zipped to his throat, including this veil which has been wrapped casually around his neck.

Normally Jim would stand perspiring in the kitchen while he chugging the contents of his water container, back arched, head tilted back, cheeks covered by a rosy alien flush as the perfect line of his throat flexed, and his mouth-

“Jim wait.” Spock calls to the humans retreating back.

He does, and looks to Spock expectantly, the line of his body tense as if waiting for an argument.

Spock sombers. “I would like to apologize for my conduct. You have proven yourself to be competent and capable, and I…regret my actions yesterday.” He looks briefly into Jim’s eyes but apologizes mostly to Jim’s pink mouth.

 Jim seems surprised. Blue eyes widen and his thick eyebrows furrow, his head tilts ten degrees to the left.

Spock does not know what to do, what more is there? He needs Jim to forgive him. He readies himself to speak.

“Thank you.” Jim’s response is curt. The human nods and disappears through the passage down the hall.

\---o---

So the whole walk of shame thing…went a lot smoother than Jim thought. He had been convinced that Spock would _sniff_ out the sex on him. He hadn’t stayed to use Tuvok’s sonic shower, he was still skeptical of how exactly that got one clean. Science, _whatever_. But it was pretty fucking lucky he’d caught Spock with his pants down, or hands in the cookie jar, the food storage, whatever. He’d obviously been distracted, out of sorts. Jesus shit, what the hell had he done to his hand? After his sortie with Tuvok, and prior to that Jim had had strong suspicions ( _what with Sybok’s indulging his finger food habit_ ), well that had confirmed it - Vulcan hands, _fingers especially_ , were sensitive. Injuring them must be the equivalent of hurting your… _areas_.

Speaking of… _areas_ , Jim could really use a shower to wash away all of the _yuck_ on his.

His lower back twinges in protest when he bends to discard his flight suit, but he pays it no notice. The coolness of the bathroom tile feels blissful against his skin when he steps into the stall. He lazily sinks to the floor, back rested against the wall, head flopped over, and turns on the spray.

At least Spock had apologized. Jim hadn’t been expecting that.

He runs a calloused hand over the bruised skin of his hips and watches at the water from the shower head push suds down the discoloured flesh.

Mmm bruises, he thinks, the sign of good sex.

\---o---

Spock approaches his destination with trepidation. The package held securely under one arm, (the limb attached to his injured appendage), while the other rises tentatively to chime on the door. It wavers. Spock checks himself and hits the button.

“Jim? It is Spock, I have come to inquire if you would care for a game of chess.”

Spock chimes again.

Jim is not there.

Jim has not been home often of late, he spends most of his time (82%) with the Vahklasians now.

Crestfallen, Spock smooths the front of his shirt and adjusts the position of the chessboard. He supposes that there are experiments that need attending to.

\---o---

Tuvok’s's biting along Jim's collarbone when the other man squeezes his biceps. "H-hurry up," Jim damn near whimpers, shifting restlessly underneath the Vulcan. He hitches one leg over Tuvok’s lower back.

Tuvok presses a soothing kiss to his lips. "Okay," he says quietly. He worms a hand between them to feel down. "Are you—"

"Begging for it! Get inside me!" Jim snaps.

Tuvok teasingly presses his middle finger inside Jim’s wet hole, reveling in the sensation the hot wet heat of him brings against his fingertip. He probes deeper, curling it slightly and Jim bucks beneath him, "Tuvok!"

He knows he is teasing Jim, in truth he is more so teasing himself, the feeling of Jim around his fingers-From the angle, he can see Jim’s pink rim stretched around three of them now, shiningslick spread all over Jim’s hole.

Jim pants as Tuvok pumps the fingers in and out, hands fisting in the sheets and covers (for once they have found themselves in a bed), chest heaving.

"Fuckin'—, come on." Jim whines.

Tuvok inhales the scent of Jim’s arousal tangy on his tongue. With reluctance, he slips his fingers out of Jim. He waits until Jim has opened his eyes, then sucks the wet digits into his mouth. Though Jim’s human appendages are not as sensitive as his, he find the act equally arousing and likes to imagine it brings Jim as much pleasure as it does him. The stifled moan and dilation of the human’s pupils, the spike of his arousal, are encouragement enough.

Jim groans softly at the sight, licking his own lips. "You're tryin' to kill me," he rasps.

Tuvok hums. “What is it you said? We die our little deaths?”

\---o---

Spock moves his knight across the board to capture Jim’s white pawn, or what would be Jim’s pawn if Jim had _actually_ been playing against him.

He sighs.

Chess is not particularly interesting when played against oneself.

It occurs to him that he is acting illogically. Jim has proven his independence; he has a separate life from Spock now. Their lives are not mutually exclusive. And yet Spock feels jealousy that the V’tosh ka’tur are gifted with the majority of Jim’s time, he feels listless. It shouldn’t be this difficult to adapt back into his routine.

And yet…

His life is half as bright without Jim in it.

\---o---

They are debating the finer points of expressing emotions and the vague parts of Vulcan morals - as usual. It’s really not as riveting the thirtieth time or so around. Jim’s fingers twine around the smooth strands of N’Veyans hair. For whatever reason the Vulcan likes having Jim braid it for him, Jim is surprised he even knows how to braid, doesn’t know where along the line he picked up that skill.

Probably drunk at a bar somewhere.

N’Veyan gestures expansively to L’Nel, an older female with grey cropped hair.

Jim is bored.

He misses Spock.

Jim was never bored with Spock.

Maybe putting space between them wasn’t his greatest decision. He pouts inwardly and runs a hand through his hair.  He’d thought space was necessary to build his own life apart from Spock, to discourage the protective way Spock had taken to caring for him.

But maybe he had been a bit extreme, he had his own life now, of sorts, it still only consisted of get up, eat, hang out, fuck, bathe or eat? Then sleep, maybe fuck, go home? Sneak in, wash rinse repeat. He felt like a high schooler. And an angsty one at that, all the fucking he was doing did nothing to fill the hole in his heart, that had somehow _widened_ away from Spock.

Jim didn’t like doing emotions, he liked suppressing them, burying them beneath a façade of sass and smiles and flawlessly executed swagger.

But it was no use beating a dead horse, Jim missed Spock, Spock had wormed his green Vulcan fingers under his skin and dammit he missed him. He missed his stupid pointy ears, his hilarious bowl cut, the way his ass moved under his cluelessly tight blue pants, the overzealous eyebrow commentary, his ‘ _I am exasperated with you Jim_ ,’ face, their walks, they way he always found everything Jim had to say ‘ _fascinating_ ,’ how he let Jim do human things without comment, how the little shit could be so endearing and nerdy at the same time.

Jim’s fingers had ceased their ministration some time ago, which hadn’t been noticed but his silence and lack of responses had.

“Jim?”

“James?”

“Huh?” Jim gapes, had they been talking to him? Woops. He stands and collects his things, excusing himself from their foray.

He need to see Spock and get to work repairing their friendship cannot be postponed.

Tuvok reaches for him, two fingers outstretched in a kiss, eyes searching for his expectantly. Jim ignores him, or forgets him in his haste, in either case their fingers do not meet. Jim sends him a parting glance as a second thought before hurrying uncharacteristically from their presence, ignorant of Tuvok’s watchful eye.

\---o---

Jim gets home and showers, wanting to erase all traces of Tuvok and his friends before confronting Spock, he plans on coming clean literally and figuratively. If they’re going to start fresh then a shower is in order. He washes, rinses, dries himself off and looks in the mirror, flashing his best Kirk grin. It’s dazzling per usual but it doesn’t seem good enough. This is Spock he’s trying to seduce back into friendship with him.

Uhg.

Jim goes to slip into his sleep pants and hears the depressing tear of the fabric before he feels the air flowing through the seam on his leg. How often has he been wearing these for? Every day for what, five months now?

“Shee-it” It feels sort for indecent to approach Spock in just his underwear, though it would be symbolic of him having nothing to hide, maybe Spock would be more apt to forgive him for his outstanding douchbaggery, or maybe it would just distract him from feeling sore on the topic because, “James, your are indecent, please clothe yourself at once!”

He seriously considers it, slips on his threadbare white T shirt and pads over to the door when he realizes that he’s still got bruises, hickeys from Tuvok, on his inner thighs.

“Bullocks!” He curses and stomps around his room for a time. He pulls his flightsuit up to his waist, ties it off and stalks towards the door, dog tags bouncing off his chest.

Spock wasn’t in his lab, he wasn’t in his study, he wasn’t out for a walk because Jim had walked their path and not found him, then hurried home because what if Spock had had another lab accident? And then Jim had checked thoroughly under all the benches and inside the closets and chimed his room thirty times with no answer. Spock was not in Jim’s room, Spock was not in the kitchen, Spock was not in the front yard, and Jim didn’t think he would be on the roof. So all options eliminated, unless Spock was camouflaged and sticking to the ceiling, the Vulcan was out. Frustrated, Jim angrily stalked to the kitchen to angrily eat an disappointing snack.

\---o---

“So here’s the thing,” Jim fixes Spock with a look when he finally finds him two hours later, having mysteriously appeared in the backyard, which Jim had checked six times prior. The look on his face is the kind one forces when trying to divulge sensitive information without appearing vulnerable, “I don’t do emotions well.”

The poor bastard looks thoroughly startled at Jim’s having appeared there, it, if anything has interrupted the world class scowling he had been doing.

Spock, when Jim finally registered the strange shape in his periphery as he furiously cleaned the kitchen, after he had given up searching, is the last place Jim would expect him to be-topless and surly in the sand pit. His blue eyes darted over Spock before continuing on because, _topless_ , and Spock had never shown him some skin, he was _practically Victorian,_ all wrists and collar bones, “I’m sorry about the other night, when I lost control, I’m an ass,” he shrugged.

The Vulcan, having finally come to his senses held on his hand to stop Jim from speaking. “Jim, please, let us continue this inside,” when I am decent, he did not add. His head swiveled left and right, searching for his robe.

Jim is not so discreetly looking at every object in his eyesight _except_ for Spock’s chest, and his biceps, and his shoulders…chest hair, pectorals. His mouth is wide enough to catch flies when Spock finally hoists himself onto the sand, and yes, sweet salvation that was an ass; and holy shit those thighs.

Spock cleared his throat.

 _OH fuck,_ Jim had been visually molesting him.

The Vulcan, having donned his robe doesn’t seem to be as upset as Jim expects him to be; perhaps he didn’t notice the full extent of Jim’s leering. It still feels like Spock is naked, his silky grey robe just makes Jim think bedroom thoughts about him, about Spock striding confidently towards a lover in that robe and-also, where can he get one of those robes? All Vulcan’s have robes, Jim doesn’t have a robe, Sybok has a robe….

Belatedly he realizes that Spock has lead them into the house and deposited them within the study, which, Jim is ashamed, is a disaster, after he had thrown the cushions and furniture around looking for Spock under every conceivable surface.

Spock stands in the center of the room looking perplexed. “Please tidy this mess while I dress, when I return we will continue where you left off.” His robe swishes as he passes by and Jim wants nothing more than to pull it from his body, to keep it for himself of course. The fabric looks silky.

When he returns, with a steaming cup of tea in hand, most of the furniture is in order and so Jim motions for him to sit. Spock’s face does this flawless impression of a statue, but he sits.

Jim remains standing.

“I-I went through a lot of trauma as a child and lived…with difficulty, I still… there are times when I react to feeling displaced or threatened poorly, and I’m sorry. I haven’t done that in a long time.” Jim finally lifts his eyes, wide and expansive to take in Spock’s reaction to his confession-apology.

The Vulcan has his tea cradled in his hands resting warmly on his lap. His granite expression has finally cracked; the crease between his brows is an indication of deep thought, as is the way that his finger tracks rhythmically over the ceramic of his mug.

“I can understand your situation,” Spock starts, startling himself as much as Jim by stating it. He looks askance at the exit, “I too do not ‘do emotions well’ either. In fact I am notably worse at controlling them than other Vulcans.” He sips his tea to fortify himself and then carries on. “We moved often during my childhood and lived with various cultures. I find that I have little patience in dealing with my own.”

Jim snorts, “I’ve noticed.”

Spock scowls.

Jim arches a brow.

Spock raises both.

Jim smirks, “Do you wanna play chess?”

\---o---

And chess evolved to a stalemate and hot tea and to Jim stumbling half dead to his room at dawn to pass out backwards on his mattress.

His padd chimes from the bedside table, indicating another message has been delivered. Jim groans and rolls over in his bed, knotting himself up in the sheets. It’s probably Tuvok anyway, _nothing important_. He was supposed to meet him today for lunch _as usual_ , but he and Spock were u late last night and sleep, sleep was a priority, there needed to be _more sleep._

He kicks the padd away from him, sending it clattering to the floor.

Besides he wanted to have more Spock time today, so they could do _Jim and Spock_ things. Eat things in the same room and chat, walk around outside some place, chess, watch the other do shit, move their eyebrows at each other… his thoughts become foggier as he drifts back to sleep, limbs becoming lighter as he loses sensation and blissful unconsciousness comes over him and-

The door chimes.

“Jim? It is Spock, are you awake?”

“GRaaaHG!”

“…Jim?”

\---o---

It takes some effort on Spock’s part, much cajoling before Spock is finally successful in persuading Jim to come out with him for an evening stroll. The human had slept most of the day and stumbled from room to room, seemingly driven to sleep in every room of the their abode. At high noon Spock had approached him where he had buried into the cushions of the study to ascertain is he was unwell, to which Jim begged off being merely sore from an increase in athletic activity. Spock had noticed a certain _alteration_ to his gait as of late but had not attributed it to anything but body language, a physical representation of his annoyance when Spock was in his presence.

Spock takes in the way Jim saunters carefree, the fabric of his tattered flight suit swishing with each stride. He notes how threadbare the fabric on his rear has become, the cloth had been form fitting before, but as it has thinned from constant wear well…more movement is visible. Spock’s ears tings green, in his periphery he notices an excellent specimen of cacti, the dispersal of its thorns are astonishingly symmetrical. Perhaps it is time to fit the cadet with new clothing.

Jim absently scratches his nose, “some famous guy on Earth said ‘everything in moderation,’”

The cadet has a tendency to begin conversations at a midpoint and to assume that Spock knows the starting point. The cadet also has a tendency to speak his thoughts aloud without noticing. He finds it difficult to produce the proper response in both situations.

Blue eyes slide his direction.

Spock nods, having taking a liking to this earth quote, “this person was quite logical.”

“Yeah well, I’m still gonna go see Tuvok and those guys,” he shoots Spock a look, and Spock takes in the determination in his eyes and the curled in shape of Jim shoulders, and knowing what the opposing signals mean now, does not comment.

It seems Jim’s random quotation served a purpose after all.

Jim’s back straightens and his shoulders go lax as he continues with his jaunt, “You’re great, you’re the most interesting Vulcan I know-” Spock flushes, “well Sybok is fascinating,” Jim thinks out loud and Spock frowns,  “but if I have to make a new life for myself you can’t be my whole world.”

And Spock thoroughly enjoys having Jim back around him, he feels honored that the human took confidence in him and plans to do his utmost to make adapting to life on Vulcan a faultless process, but Jim is correct; he understands that he can’t be Jim’s only source of support. Adults need a purpose, work, a passion, family, a close friend at least and humans, being emotionally complex, require emotional outlets as well. And while Vulcans were deeply emotional, they were not capable of freely expressing their feelings without risk. The V’tosh ka’tur offered Jim a unique opportunity, the chance for him to have an emotional outlet. Spock could attempt but he was not confident in the odds of his success.

“I concur.”

“You do?”

Spock puts on his best Vulcan face, folds his hands habitually behind his back and walks ahead of a flabbergasted Jim. “Yes, though I will hold you to this philosophy of ‘everything in moderation.’ I found adjusting myself to my old routine in your absence to be more difficult than expected.”

\---o---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok ok, you all want to slaughter me I be for the JimVok pwp, but it's like ONLY THIS CHAPTER and for reasons, TO MAKE SPOCK MISERABLE.


	12. The Great Reveal!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock’s shoulders tense and his head remains bowed in the dip of Jim’s shoulder.
> 
> “You have come to harm.” Spock says, but it sounds like a sob.
> 
> “Did they touch your mind Jim?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok going on haitus for a while, this was the last chapter i had stored away ahead of time :/
> 
> gimmie like 2 weeks before ch 13 is posted 
> 
> Anywho, hope this makes up for the hideously evil ch11!

 

               

12 The Great Reveal

 

Vulcan’s do not dream, not often at least, only in times of physical and severe mental duress. The Vulcan mind is one of utmost control and when unconscious dreams do not penetrate. So when Spock awoke one morning, hot and flushed, from confused visions pertaining to Jim, heart beating like a drum, he was concerned, and irritated, but _only_ _slightly_.

It was highly unusual.

His bed sheet is tangled low around his legs, sprawled uncharacteristically over the mattress. He glowers at the scene beyond his window, it is early even for a Vulcan, the first rays of the suns light had yet to lighten the horizon yet it was distinctly that time when the night was done and the morning was fast approaching.  At length he rights himself smoothing the unkempt mop of his hair and dressed himself in his meditation robe. Gingerly, for he is still mentally shaken by the visions of his dream, unclear as they are, amorphic and more ideas than images, he seats himself on a cushion and habitually lights the first of several incense that will help ease him into a meditation. Jim’s smile, the rays of light reflecting off his golden hair, his fingers, the spherical curve of his rear…

When he emerges from meditation several hours later, he makes his way to the kitchen, to begin preparation for his and Jim’s breakfasts. Yet he is halted, metaphorically and not physically, by the shock of finding a note stuck to the front of their food pantry. Had there been intruders? Certainly this is not Spock’s hand writing, not this messy scrawl, had Sybok returned early? If so a note is uncharacteristically bland and reserved for his brother. And the grammar is not accurate, it reads like something from a rudimentary translator, interspaced with drawings and a language he does not recognize:

“Unknown language, Unknown language- _Eat with,_

 _going back at night._ -Unknown language.”

After scrutiny he guesses that the note can be from no other than Jim. He wonders at how Jim has managed to grasp, putting it crudely, Vulcan writing with no tutelage. The corner of his mouth pulls downward, while impressive Jim’s skill level is unacceptable, a Vulcan toddler generally possessed the same level of literacy. Spock feels guilty that he was not the one to teach Jim, it was something he should have been doing all along.

Well, from the image of the foolish looking Vulcan, outright grinning donned with ridiculous head gear, Spock judges that it must be a Vahklasian, which makes the human sketch a representation of Jim. He scowls at the image of the scowling Vulcan, as is the way of all art, it does not do the original justice, for he realizes that if this is a letter from Jim, then it can be addressed only to him, and that tiny scowling Vulcan face represents his own.

Spock does not scowl.

It looks nothing like Spock.

Perhaps the inked black of the hair, _if anything._

However the image of the Vaklsaian, with the gaping mouth and careless grin, Spock notes that the resemblance is _uncanny_.

In light of Jim’s absence he chooses to forego a morning meal, prolonging his fast, in lieu of prepping himself for a morning ‘workout’ as Jim would call it. He carries a towel and a light bottle of cold tea and trots casually through the back doors, into the crisp yellow light of morning. He removes his shirt and begins stretches in preparation for his first stance. Spock moves through the first seventeen stances of the ponn-ifla but finds he cannot maintain a center of concentration; his eyes keep straying to the sand pit. He suppresses the urge to glance at it, but the more he forces it from his mind the more it reminds him of Jim, Jim tanned and reclining in the pit, Jim’s foolish open mouthed grin underneath a damp cloth, draped out for all of Vulcan under the burning sun.

Well this is simply _not_ going to work.

Spock swats at himself with his towel and forcefully fits his mouth to the rim of his juice container, draining the bottle rapidly.

He stalks back into the house, disposing of the towel in the hamper in his bathroom. He dresses in his formal attire, donning the blue top and black pants he is accustomed to wearing during meetings with the VSA and packages his most recent reports, the updates on Jim’s progress, data analyses of his various experiments, and sets out for greater Shikahr.

If he cannot banish the distracting thoughts of Jim from his mind then surely a visit to the academy, a visit in person, surrounded by dozens of Vulcan’s he frankly cannot stand to be around for extended periods of time, will distress him enough to banish them for him.

\---o---

After an early lunch (pfft breakfast) in Shikahr Jim and Tuvok had returned to the apartment for a spectacularly rousing session under the sheets, so to speak. Lazy and sated Jim lays sprawled over Tuvok, back to chest while the Vulcan runs long fingers through his hair. Jim hums in approval and enjoys the sensation of fingers scratching over his scalp.

“You have been removed as of late.” Tuvok speaks.

“Hrm?” Jim crooks his neck in the Vulcan’s direction. “What do you mean?”

“You spend much of your time away from here, you are difficult to reach,” he finishes, in reference to the messager on Jim’s padd.

Jim’s heart quivers, he is guilty. He has purposefully been avoiding the majority of Tuvok’s messages. He cants his eyes to the side and resists the urge to bite his lip. It would be an obvious tell, _even to a Vulcan_. “I’ve been spending more time with Spock, we hadn’t been under good terms previously.”

“Ah,” Tuvok states, noncommittally. In truth he was not happy with his lover’s confession. He felt jealously towards the Vulcan who so consumed Jim Kirk’s time. Had they not more in common? Did he not know Jim Kirk more _intimately_ than S’chn T’gai Spock?

Tuvok was unsure of what action to take.

Jealously is a difficult emotion, even for humans.

He grasps Jim’s jaw, tilting his head up and back, reaching for his mouth with his. Jim moans into the kiss, accepting it readily. Tuvok shifts, pushing Jim down and back with on strong arm while lifting himself up and over with his other.

He slides his thigh between Jim’s legs.

“mmph,” Jim breaks the kiss, “again? Already?”

Tuvok silences him via a bite to his plush lower lip.

And then again by a bite to the juncture of neck and jaw.

And then by several to the long ling of his throat.

Straining under him, half hard against Tuvok’s thigh and already leaking Jim finally finds his voice. “Spock is expecting me later, I have to be back by dark.”

Exactly the name he did not want to hear while in bed with his lover. He grabs Jim’s hip and flips him over roughly. Jim emits a sound of surprise and struggles to rise to his hands and knees but Tuvok no longer has the patience to allow this, he pulls Jim’s hips up and arches his back, forces one shoulder down while the other is like a vice of concrete on his hip.

Jim is leaving him in several hours for _S’chn T’gai Spock,_ but he will not allow him to forget that he was with _T’an L’ri Tuvok_ first.

\---o---

Tuvok hadn’t been very careful with Jim’s fragile human body, his back fucking _hurts_ , and the walk home was not very pleasing, he hadn’t been grimacing because of the heat.

 _And_ _goddamit_ , it feels like he’s been fucked by a horse.

Tuvok that bastard had driven his point home all right, literally and figuratively.

‘I’m jealous of you spending time with Spock,’ it said, oh so mercilessly and painfully, yet pleasing at the right angle as he’d driven it home again and again and again.

No sex ever again.

Except no, maybe Jim would have a woman next time. A nice soft fleshy woman.

Jim groans loud and exaggerated. Let all of Vulcan know how disgusted he is; let the whole planet see him hobbling home with his hand on his lower back, because Tuvok was a dick!

He would have been thoroughly incensed if he hadn’t liked it so much. The ache, _ok yeah_ ,it sucked but the pain would pass, what really had him irked was the jealous behavior. Tuvok fucking him to leaving a mark, Tuvok fucking him to leave a _lasting impression_ that said, “when your with Spock, and you try to sit down for your game of chess, when you feel your hole spasm, raw and still leaking from me, Tuvok, well…” Jim got the idea, wherever he was with Spock, he would be reminded of Tuvok (for a time). And Jim didn’t like that forced reminder, he _wasn’t_ Tuvok’s boyfriend, he wasn’t someone for him to be jealous over.

Goddamit was this the dangerous shit Spock had warned him about?

Wrathful jealous Vulcan lovers?

Jim follows the turn in the road, leading him closer to the house and sighs in relief when the building finally comes into view.

Salvation at long last.

He is definitely grabbing a shower before facing Spock, and he really needs to change out of his grimy flightsuit which might he add, has seen better days. Starfleet made the best of the best but not even his flightsuit was meant to stand up to relentless use under the temperatures and sand storms of Vulcan. The previously snug material had worn thin and stretched in various places. Jim felt like a hobo, a diseased hobo with a war wound because he couldn’t fucking stand up straight to walk, Tuvok, _you ass_.

Jim bursts through the front door, barley stopping in his march (aggressive shuffle) to wait for the door to register his key pass and slide open. He is around the corner and out of the foyer just as the door locks shut.

Even as he shuffles around the corner of the hall his fingers (the ones not bracing his back) are working to remove his head scarf and goggles, throwing them unceremoniously to the floor in his wake. The zipper at the collar of his suit goes neck, a resounding snick as it’s pulled downwards. He is well into the kitchen buy the time he has himself naked down to the v of his hips, the elastic of his boxer briefs an alarming yellow beneath the faded navy fabric.

And that is precisely when Spock emerges sideways from a crack in the universe, gaping like a fish out of water in the middle of the kitchen.

When the _hell_ had he gotten there?

Had he been there the whole fucking time?

\---o---

Spock had returned victorious (in several ways) from the VSA and entered the kitchen to brew himself a well deserved cup of his favourite tea, the uncommon and arguably expensive tea that only Sybok ever procured for him, the tea which Spock only drank on momentous occasions (or when Sybok visited). Not only had he succeeded in annoying himself to his whit’s end, he had also gained good favor with his employers, completed his work three days ahead of schedule and banished all thought of Jim, shirtless, Jim, smiling, _Jim, Jim Jim._

And when he raised the steaming cup of wonderful tea to his parted lips to partake of the first sip he heard the snick of the front door sliding open and heard the clumsy footfalls of a person entering. He surmised they must be Jim’s, it was late afternoon, he was arriving as expected, however Spock was curious as to why the sound of his gait varied so from usual.

His only idea was that Jim had exerted himself more so than usual, as was returning tired with leaden limbs. Nevertheless, his friend was rapidly approaching and would momentarily pass through the kitchen on his way to his rooms.

Jim enters through what could only be described as a rift in space time because his motions are obscenely slow and Spock watches his every moment riveted on the spot, noting each detail.

His flight suit opens, falls from his sculpted shoulders, the flat planes of his chest are revealed, his abdominals shifting as he stalks further into the kitchen, his veil floats behind him through the air as it falls to the floor, the tick in his jaw, the determined dark set of his eyes, like a predator with its prey in his sights, stalking closer towards Spock, the flightsuit all the while slowly slipping further down his hips, finally catching above the swell of his genitals.

Spock swallows his tea so violently he burns his throat.

And then time seems to catch up as Jim’s eyes finally catch his, awareness finally donning on him, his eyes grow wide.

“GAH! SPOCK WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!” Jim flails, grabbing hastily at his flightsuit, attempting to bring it up to cover him, fumbling as he tries to tie it off at his waist, though not before Spock spied what Jim was trying to hide.

It takes Spock time to respond, because though Jim has hidden the marks on his hips, fingerprints, after seeing the rest of Jim’s body he doesn’t need to think twice about the flashes he glimpsed. The marks trailing down his neck, red, like teeth marks, the bruise on his shoulder, and the finger prints, everywhere the shape of fingerprints dotting his skin in the areas where one would grip a lover-

This is-

Spock doesn’t realize when it is exactly that his body of its own volition moved, but he finds himself within a startled Jim Krik’s space, cradling his head back, gingerly examining the markings on his shoulder, scrutinizing the marks of, yes, a mouth, _another Vulcan’s mouth_ , on his skin. All the while he is ever mindful of _how close_ Jim is to the surface, of his minds brush against his, closer now because _yes_ they are touching, Spock’s fingers on Jim’s warm skin, so soft incredibly under the pads of his fingers and closer like _before_ because Jim _should not_ have these marks on his skin, and Spock is under duress, _again_ , because of Jim.

He exhales heavily through his nostrils and understands that he is seeing things through a haze, he finally realizes what Jim had meant when he once described being so mad that, “he was seeing red.” He finally has an inkling of an idea of what it is like for the few Vulcan’s who experience the Plak Tow, to be succumbed in rage and to lose all reason.

This was _not_ supposed to happen.

Jim _was not to_ have been harmed.

The V’tosh ka’tur-

Spock is startled out of his rage at a sound Jim makes, one the primal part of his brain registers as distress. He appears to have moved them toward the far wall of the room, one hand braced by Jim’s shoulder the other caging him in by his waist, standing all the while distressingly close to Jim Kirk, so close he can feel the heat radiating off his flushed skin.

At least he hadn’t touched their temples together; mercifully he hadn’t sought for the human’s mind with his own.

Spock’s shoulders tense and his head remains bowed by the dip of Jim’s shoulder.

“You have come to harm.” Spock says, but it sounds like a sob.

“Its fine Spock, I’m just sore.” Jim gives a gentle squeeze to Spock’s shoulder, meant to reassure him. It doesn’t- it starts to but _it’s not adequate_ for the situation.

“Inform me of their identity that I may report them to the authorities.”

“Spock, I wasn’t attacked.”

“No?” Spock all but shouts, “then explain the bruising, the bite marks, they are from the V’tosh ka’tur, correct?”

“I-“

“Did they touch your mind Jim?” Spock is suddenly careful and fixes Jim with a heartbroken look, his hands gently cup the meat of Jim’s shoulders. And Jim can tell he’s serious, that this ‘mind touch’ is a thing, and well he’s not sure what that is, exactly, he’s pretty sure that no, such a thing (whatever it is) did not occur. But he’s not exactly ready to confess to Spock what _really_ occurred.

This is going to be mortifying.

Fucking Tuvok, this had gone _too far_.

Poor Spock was about to have an aneurism.

“No.” Jim says softly. “I wasn’t attacked,” he repeats, “it was just sex.”

For a moment Jim feels like he’s looking at a mannequin, for all the responsiveness he see’s in the Vulcan, and then Spock’s mouth parts slightly and he steps backwards, he looks to the floor tile as if it has all the answers.

“Oh.”

Jim stares at Spock staring at the floor tile.

Spock’s spine straightens and it feels like watching a machine booting up, the way he fits himself into his parade rest. And still his eyes are on the tile, and is that a green flush covering the tips of his ears? Brown eyes flit to Jim’s and back again. “It was consensual?” He asks in low monotone.

“Yes.”

Jim can see the gears turning underneath those dark bangs. “Is it normal for humans to be so…injured after intercourse?”

Jim shifts. “Ahhmm..err. No, ah, this is ah, uncommon.” He doesn’t want to go into detail as to why this one time was an exception.

Thankfully Spock ends the questions there.

“I apologize for the intrusion of your personal space. I became momentarily emotionally compromised. I will Endeavour for it to not happen again.” His body shifts, angling towards his room; and Jim knows how this is going to go down.

Spock will disappear (as is traditional for them now after one of their disputes…thought this doesn’t _exactly_ qualify, but he is obviously, glaringly, distressed), to meditate for a time before reemerging.

“I require time to collect my thoughts.” Then, taking a leaf out of Jim’s book, he abruptly changes course and exits through the back, stalking swiftly across the sand.

Well that was unusual.

And so was coming home half naked looking like the victim of a sexual assault.

Jim’s heart is beating like an anvil against his chest, what the hell was that? The way that Spock had cradled him, his reaction to seeing the hickies and bruises, he’d felt a tingling all over his skin where Spock’s fingers had touched him, a constant electric buzz that he’d only experienced with Tuvok when he had been close, during sex, when his mind had had the least control.

Was that Spock?

Had that been his mind trying to touch his?

Jim slaps himself, smack dab in the center of his face then throws his hands up into the air in exasperation.

“Mother fucker,” he drawls, and heads for the shower.

\---o---

With the meeting between Jim and the Vulcan engineers rapidly approaching, rapidly as in it was the very next day, Jim and Spock busied themselves in the kitchen later that evening to make preparations for a light luncheon.

Jim was surprised, the whole practice was alarmingly human, he hadn’t taken Vulcan’s as the type to eat when there was business at hand, then again Sybok had, but he wasn’t exactly the best example of a traditional Vulcan…

Jim feels like he should do something to make it up to Spock for upsetting him earlier, the Vulcan had returned composed from his walk-about or whatever and had not said anything _slightly_ related to the incident other than “I believe it is time to acquire you new clothing, your flightsuit appears to have fallen into disrepair.”

To which Jim had readily agreed.

And then they had made salad.

So…

Where they avoiding the topic? Either way Jim felt guilty for upsetting Spock, _again_ , which was something that seemed to happen frequently. Yet he knew it wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t done anything to make the Vulcan upset, it was circumstantial and goddam Tuvok, if anyone, was more at fault that him.

Speaking _of_ , he _wasn’t_ answering those messages.

_Twat!_

At a loss for what to do or say Jim surged onward, blurting the first thing that came to mind, beginning mid sentence as if they had already been having a conversation, “so the tingling I feel when you or Tuvok touches me (and yes that was a deliberate name drop, at least Spock will be comforted knowing which Vulcan to glare menacingly at) is what? Some mind thing?”

Spock dries a bowl, “I had not realized that you felt anything,” and carefully puts it aside. “The sensation you feel is that of _our_ (he hisses, disgusted to be sharing something with Tuvok) minds brushing your consciousness.”

Jim’s eye brows reach for the sky.

 _Are you shitting me_ , he thinks, except by the look Spock gives him he has said that aloud.

“I am not-“ Spock begins, with a confused quirk of his head.

“Are YOU SHITTING ME! All this time you were telepathic and I was like, _oh no_ , they aren’t reading my mind, like I suspected when T’Mir was first examining me in the lab and, I WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG?” Jim is incredulous and makes choking motions in the air.

Spock’s chin tilts, “I assure you no one has been reading your mind, Vulcan have telepathic abilities however they are strictly controlled, one of the reasons for frequent meditation, minds melds only occur under intimate or rare medical conditions.”

 “ _You’re shitting me,”_ Jim whispers. He squints hard at Spock and leans towards him, tilting his ear as if listening, Spock sees his jaw tick.

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, “I am not reading your mind at this juncture Jim, cease your attempts.”

Jim scoffs and relaxes. “Wait so you didn’t answer my question, or well you did but I’m still unclear. Do you have to be touching for your powers to work?”

“Please do not refer to them as powers Jim,” Spock sighs, “a true meld of minds must occur under direct contact, however experienced Vulcans have the capability to reach minds apart for them own without contact, though with considerably more effort and less reliable results.”

Jim thinks on this new information, absently chewing on a piece of lettuce as he does so. He scrutinizes Spock, eyes dragging along his lithe frame as if looking for the secrets of his telepathy.

What else were the Vulcan’s not telling about themselves?

“Is there anything else?”

“…There is not.”

“Oh,” Jim blurts, “and I want clothing just like yours,” he starts, mid thought per usual, “black pants, but a yellow top-and boots!”

“Naturally.”

“And some kind of jacket for the sand.”

“Of course.”

“And underwear.” Jim adds to the list of his demands.

Spock is reminded of the flash of red jutting out of Jim’s suit some hours earlier, covering the swell of his privates, how tightly the black pair he had previously worn while exercising had been.

“Perhaps it is best for you to tell the tailor your specifications.”

\---o---

The door chimes.

The tingle of anxiety and excitement that shoots through Jim and downwards makes him want to shit himself, but in a good way.

 _Oh no,_ he may actually _need_ to use the lav.

“Spock!” He blurts and twirls for the bathroom.

Spock strides past him and into the foyer, obviously making for the doorway to open it and, should he wait? Should he just go and come back?

No, no it’s just nerves, but how should he stand? Jim postures, one leg foreword, rests an arm casually on the counter and smirks.

Gah, he feels like a pimp beckoning witless citizens into his den of iniquity. _Just act normal,_ he remands himself, he crosses his arms, hears Spock speaking with the two Vulcan’s in the doorway, “come this way,” he hears, changes his position several times, and the more normal he tries to act the more abnormal he looks.

The tallest Vulcan in the universe strides into the kitchen just as Jim is trying out his impression of the thinking man.

Caught with his pants down, AGAIN.

The Vulcan at least, doesn’t seem to realize how flustered Jim is. “Cadet Kirk, I am Koss, the engineer leading the analysis on the Enterprise.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“Indeed.”

Vorik and Spock appeared behind Koss, or they could have been there the whole time, how was Jim to know with the giant so thoroughly blocking his view?

Koss appeared to be looking around the room, as if deciding where to place his giant self. It must be difficult being so big. Cups for instance, how did they fit in his hands?

“James has been eagerly awaiting this meeting, “Spock spoke, “He will be quite pleased to assist you.”

Jim looked toward Spock, what the hell was with calling him _James,_ and plucked a berry from the fruit bowl, sucking it into his mouth.

Vorik appeared taken aback. “The only pleasure I actively seek it that which I receive from my work.”

Spock glared.

Vorik stared back.

Jim stared at them staring at each other while actively missing something.

Koss seated himself at the dining table with an exasperated sigh. He helped himself to some of the fruit placed in the bowl before him, long fingers dexterously ruling out the less desirable berries.

Jim decided that they were having some sort of telepathic battle and sat himself before Koss.

“Please excuse my interns behavior, he is single minded.” Koss said after swallowing a fruit.

“And Spock can be very rude,” he answered, plucking his own fruit from the bowl.

Spock and Vorik seemed to finish their staring contest and seated themselves at the table as well. Jim looked up at them as they sat, sucking fruit juice from his fingers.

Koss stared, his eyes slid to Spock, who was too transfixed on Kirk’s mouth to notice, and then back to Kirk’s lips wrapped around his index finger and thumb.

“I would refrain from such habits in Vulcan public Jim Kirk; it would be considered most improper, bordering on salacious.”

Jim’s eyebrows shot through his hairline, his blue eyes widened impossibly large and his face began to colour a shade of pink. “Oh! Shit,” he stammered, “I’m sorry I forgot, Spock has told me that before-“

Spock interrupted, “Many times,” he growled.

“-but it’s very common on Earth to eat with your fingers.” he finished. Jim hastily cleaned his hands on a cloth and placed them under the table, folded on his lap, in an attempt to hide his embarrassment.

 _Shit_ , Jim just realized he had unconsciously performed the equivalent of sluttily mouthing the phallic object for three Vulcan’s. He felt his face redden even further.

Fucking Bones would be laughing his ass off right now, _goddamit_.

Spock’s continence was a mixture of irritation and embarrassment.

Vorik’s face held an expression that Koss only saw when his intern’s experiments yielded antithetical results. “Fascinating.” He appeared confused and then after a space his eyebrows raised and he began nodding approvingly to himself.

Koss pinched the bridge of his nose.

Thankfully Jim Kirk broke their awkward silence, “Should we get down to business?”


	13. Daffodil Flower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T'Vora glides in on her broom stick, shoved per usual five feet –six feet up her ass-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT CHAPTER 13!!! Were over half way done amigos. I hope this latest chapter development isn't too foreward for yaull. Um... ?I will update in a week or two if all goes well?
> 
> also this ch is un beta'd so ....if i spelled barley as barely....well

         

 

          13 Daffodil Flower

 

_In the Language of Flowers Daffodil represents: Uncertainty, respect, unrequited love, hopes for a return of affection._

\---o-----------------------------o-----------------------o-------------

 

Jim’s voice resonates and distorts under the metal frame of the ship’s hull. The human’s dirty leather boots poke out from beneath it, jiggling excitedly.

“Cadet Kirk could you repeat what you last stated?” Koss bends his large frame downward in hopes of catching Jim Kirk’s statement.

More muffled utterances, “shit! Little oiled bitch-“ Suddenly Jim shoots out from under the ship, gliding on the wheels of the creeper. He has thoroughly soiled his black undershirt, the grease and oil stains will be difficult to remove. “I said, I found your problem.”

Koss’s impassive face is all the response Jim needs to continue.

“Well, first you needed my translation program, actually mine’s pretty rough we should send it to T…oh what was her name, T’Vora for…” Jim wiggles his fingers, “refinement.”

Koss looks to Vorik, who appears to be diligently taking notes, excellent. “Vorik take cadet Kirk’s program and contact T’Vora, ask her to make the necessary adjustments.”

Vorik nods and rushes off to his work station.

Jim snorts, “You won’t have to ask.”

Koss fixes him with a look. “You were saying you have discovered the problem in our analyses?”

“Yeah, yes, I think the problem was, primarily, that you lacked a written translation of English, that’s seriously the key to everything. The systems aren’t laid out in any discernible order that you would understand.”

“That is illogical, we have many times before been able to discover the base workings of alien ships and other technologies because they all follow a rudimentary base plan. Systems are always planned in a logical pattern, with some degree of predictable variation.”

Jim scoffs, “Yes, but you have been dealing with other species that have had contact and Vulcan is based in logic. Earth is based in tradition and change and whoever discovered the thing first gets their name on it and then it _never_ gets changed. Our systems aren’t planned in any way similar to yours. For instance, the black box that you were trying to find, the one with my systems logs? That’s located under the pilot’s chair.” Jim punctuates his last statement with a kick in the chairs general direction.

Koss looks baffled; literally baffled, like the poor giant’s blown a fuse. To think, there exists a place so advanced and yet without logic.

Jim pats his shoulder reassuringly. “Let me get some tools and I’ll go in and extract it. Then we’ll do what we can with the translations until T’Vora gets here.”

Jim spends the greater part of the day working with Koss and crawling around the enterprise to his heart’s content. It feels amazing to be near his ship again. His fingers and hands still remember perfectly the motions needed to take this out and clean it, to replace this vital component, his ears recognize a good squeak and still can judge a bad one. It’s a dam shame that she still isn’t up and running or he would _beg_ Koss to take her for a flight, but that’s not exactly the point of their work is it?

Koss seems generally thankful and pleased with asking Jim to assist with the project. Jim tried not to preen, but it feels dam good to be needed and appreciated, he always has a soft spot for those. Because of the way the instructions are written, basic English, basic grammar, short and sweet, no extras, his translation system actually does an adequate job. It only trips up on some of the more specific nouns, which can’t be helped really; some things are just lost in translation. But that’s what T’Vora, the ice queen of Vulcan, is for.

She glides in on her broom stick, shoved per usual five feet –six feet up her ass, wearing, oh how ironic, ice blue robes, and has her hair piled high on her head.

She nods to Koss, “Engineer,” by way of greeting.

Koss nods to her and then waves her toward Vorik, who, like the hyperactive puppy he is, is doing the Vulcan equivalent of bouncing on his heels with excitement. Vorik shifts his weight between his feet, all the while drumming his index finger over Jim’s padd.

T’Vora glides over to him and looks so regal, _so consternated_ , Jim can’t help but think of the Ice queen from the lion the witch and the wardrobe, what was her name, Jadis, and smirks.

He is still smirking from where he is lounged against Koss’s work bench, chewing on a stylus when T’Vora senses a disturbance in the force or whatever and catches sight of him.

“James T. Kirk, it has been some time.”

Jim chews on the stylus and waves at her.

“I am impressed that you managed to engineer a translation system with your meager understanding of Vulcan.”

“It wasn’t very difficult.”

T’Vora raises an eyebrow and glides away on her magical ice chariot to relieve Vorik of his burden.

Jim can tell Koss has approached because of the gigantic shadow suddenly looming over him.

“Were you attempting humor when you said, ‘it wasn’t very difficult,’” Koss questions, in a mimicry of Jim’s tone.

Jim flashes him a grin, “Yeah, I like to see her frustrated.”

\---o---

Spock arrives after the translator has been improved by T’Vora, the woman is long gone, after having stayed a total of three minutes to gloat over her genius.

Jim looks up from his work to see the familiar blue clad Vulcan approaching. “Hey Spock.”

“Jim, how go your analyses?”

Jim eyes the bag Spock holds obscurely by his side. He tips his chair back and crosses his arms behind his head. “Fantastic elastic.”

Spock ignores his puzzling comment and places the bag of wonder on Jim’s work bench. “I have brought you a meal. I judged by your enthusiasm that you would become engrossed in work and scarce find time for sustenance.”

The chair tips forward with a loud CLACK! As Jim reaches for the bag. Food, at the mention his mouth had begun to water. “Oh you read my mind didn’t you, this is exactly what I wanted.” Inside is a freshly cooked box of rice and stewed vegetables and a small container of soup.

His stomach gurgles loudly.

Koss’s Vulcan ears picked up the sound. “Cadet Kirk, please refrain from spilling your meal on any of my instruments.”

“No problem!” Jim shoots back, digging into the rice with fervor.

Spock stands before him, seemingly pleased. He looks to the bar stools and lifts one easily with one arm, and carries it to Jim’s bench, placing it across from him. He sits, somewhat awkwardly, and watches Jim eat.

After Jim has inhaled his entire meal he leans back and groans, rubbing his stomach gluttonously. “Ohh Spock, that was amazing,” he moans.

Spock’s ears flush.

“Cadet Kirk!” Vorik barks.

Jim startles.

“If you insist on making a spectacle remove yourself and S’cn T’gai Spock at once, and remain so until you are finished!”

The laboratory falls silent.

From his work station Koss pinches the bridge of his nose so hard it will bruise later. _Do not interfere_ , he thinks, and readies himself for an arduous discussion with his intern later.

Jim rolls his eyes and begins to stand, he needed a break anyway.

Spock turns on his stool, “Sir!” he barks at Vorik, and Spock’s authoritative voice is way sexier than Jim had imagine it would be, “Refrain from making rude comments toward Cadet Kirk, your insinuations are crude and ignorant-”

_Holy shit._

Jim intervenes, yanking on Spock’s blue shirt sleeve, “ok, ok, ok that’s it, were leaving, break time, come on Spock, let’s go.” Spock gives Jim a look, and then scowls at Vorik, who looks perturbed and ruffled from where he is seated, surrounded as usual by a mountain of pads.

Koss covers his face with his hands

“Jim, this man has insulted you, you do not realize what he has implied,” Spock starts but Jim cuts him off again.

He snatches his yellow over-shirt and grabs his things from an adjacent stool, quickly pulling the shirt over his head. “Yeah, well you can enlighten me at home, since you can’t resist starting a fight with Vorik every time you two come in contact. Were leaving.”

Jim can practically hear Spock huffing and hawing inside his mind as they wind through the corridors and doorways of the VSA. He refrains from commenting, _on anything_ , until the glaring sunlight of Vulcan encompasses them outside the facility.

By then Jim has assembled his outdoor attire, new overcoat and hood in place, sun goggles resting across his forehead.

He squints in the blinding orange daylight at Spock, trying to convey a sense of seriousness. “Ok, Spill.”

Spock gives him a look, again with the confusion, but he is smarter than the average bear, and he catches Jim’s meaning. He looks askance, the line of his mouth drawn tight. “Vorik was implying a relationship of sexual nature between us.”

Jim’s eyes are watering and a tear slips past his eyelids, he lets Spock see his eyes roll in exasperation, because _really_? And then shields them from the sun with a gloved hand. “That’s it?”

Spock is silent from beyond the soothing dark of his glove.

He waves his free hand and cocks his hip, shifting his stance, “I mean it’s not so farfetched, we live together, I just don’t think it’s a big deal.”

He lifts his hand up, using it as a visor and squints at Spock for all he’s worth. The Vulcan stands adjacent to him, arms loose at his sides a dark shadow over his face. Jim knows that look, that pose, Jim has done it many times himself, it is the look of someone excepting an injury, a reprimand.

“You are not… insulted?”

 _Ah_ , see, Jim was right.

“No, why should I be? You’re an attractive male, and I’m not opposed to relationships of that…sort…”

They stand awkwardly for a moment, Jim squinting and grimacing in the sunlight like a French gargoyle, eyes watering something fierce and Spock standing meek and hunched in across from him.

He registers Spock speaking somewhere between rubbing furiously at his watering eyes and resisting a sneeze brought on no doubt by the fierce sunlight. “But your relationship with Tuvok…”

“Tuvok’s a dick!” Jim snaps.

Jim covers his eyes again and reaches blindly for Spock, he catches his shirt sleeve and tugs him on. Spock allows himself to be lead away and they continue. “I’m not in a relationship with Tuvok,” he calmly explains, “we were just fooling around.”

“Your eyesight will be damaged Jim.” Spock murmurs and guides the sun goggles down his forehead and over his eyes. Jim allows him to brush his hands aside and allows Spock to adjust them over the bridge of his nose and ponders at the tingling sensation he gets in his chest.

“What do you mean by fooling around?” Spock’s voice is a low rumble in close proximity and when Jim opens his eyes, finally, under the protection of his goggles he sees that he stands close before him.

“Sex?” he says unsurely.

Spock looks abruptly away in a half nod, his arms folding neatly behind his back.

One syllable isn’t going to be enough of an explanation for Spock. _“I needed physical comfort,”_ Jim mumbles, knowing Spock’s pointed ears will pick it up. Jim is too embarrassed to look at him as he says it, not because of the sex, but because of the implications, needing that comfort, and feeling exposed he shows Spock his back, striding from him as he mumbles it.

His friend merely hastens his pace to match his stride and says nothing more on the subject.

\---o---

 

Spock had not considered the possibility that Jim’s relationship with Tuvok had merely been one of….mutual convenience. Vulcan’s did not often enter into such partnerships. Again, he had illogically been judging Jim’s actions through Vulcan customs. From his candor on the subject, it was not something unheard of or unusual on Earth, at least of his people.

His eyes drift to Jim’s prone form on the couch, tracking the rise and fall of his chest. He steps over to the end table, lifting what was once a bowl _filled_ with tuber root and brings it away with him to the kitchen, disposing of its contents. This easy companionship he has with Jim is unlike anything Spock has had before. Every moment with Jim is unlike the last, every encounter fascinating, each day in companionship a chance for him to learn more of him. It has rapidly grown into more than the typical Vulcan friendship. Theirs had distinctly more trust and a lack of pretence. If the day ever came for Jim Kirk to returned to Earth, Spock would mourn.

And unlike his self prior to Jim’s meeting, the prospect did not alarm him. He did not feel deficient or trapped at the idea of experiencing emotions as he once did; not when they were warranted. The revelation reeks of something Sybok had been trying to convince him of for years, however it took Jim for him to accept it. Something about the human made Spock’s emotions resonate louder, made his control spread thin.

His mouth quirks wryly, it is majorly in part to Jim’s irreverence in the face of his mortality, and his flippancy towards self preservation. The incident with the Le-Matya had nearly sent Spock into fits, and yet there was Jim, laughing. Being around Jim made him confront problems, rather than meditating on them indefinitely. He finds he does not mind this, so long as he has Jim as his side, who he trusts, to help him should he desire it.

 And yet, when he looks at Jim, sleeping peacefully, rosy hue on his cheeks from the tuber root, he still feels that this is more than a friendship. For Spock Jim represents something greater. When he believed Jim had been ravished by the V’tosh ka’tur he had felt rage and grief unlike anything he had experienced.  A reaction of that magnitude does not correlate with an easy friendship, therefore the companionship of Jim and Spock is more. Spock’s conundrum lies in discerning exactly what _more_ entails.

\---o---

 

Jim tries to focus on the chess board in front of him, pretending to be absorbed in his game strategy, conscious of the lack thereof.  

_‘Pfft, strategy.’_

Jim learned weeks ago not to try to out strategize Spock, if Jim thought ten moves ahead then Spock would think _twenty_. No, his strategy was to be as abstract, illogical, and unpredictable as possible. Then maybe he could confuse the alien into loosing. _It worked sometimes_. However, in reality he's far too distracted by the man sitting across from him.

Jim keeps his head down, watching out of the corner of his eye as Spock shifts to refill his glass. Jim keeps his face blank, pretends to be analyzing Spock’s game play. The Vulcan’s fingers run along the rim of his tea cup, in a gesture Jim supposes he should believe is absentminded.

As if.

He sees what those fingers are doing, he sees what _Spock_ is doing.

Jim drags his eyes away and moves a random a piece, the knight, haphazardly across the board, directly into the path of one of Spock’s pawns. Lightning fast Spock reaches out to capture it, brushing _by accident_ across the tendons of his inner wrist. The light contact sends a shiver up Jim’s arm and he jolts slightly in surprise.

That is not the first time during their game that Spock’s ‘careful’ hands, _fingers_ , have brushed ‘accidentally’ across Jim’s.

Spock is not playing chess, _he is playing Jim_.

 “More tea?"

Jim disguises his inner thoughts and nonchalantly stretches back, catlike, into his chair. His white undershirt rides up with the movement, exposing the tanned skin of his navel.

The thing is, he _knows_ he’s being played, by Spock of all people, but he doesn’t mind.

It just seems _so random_.

He hadn’t thought the sentiment was there.

And he doesn’t trust it.

 Spock has moved his queen into the open, but he sees it for the trap it is, if he captures her he’ll leave his King wide open.

His padd chimes suddenly, dispelling some of the tension that had been building between them. Jim reaches for it, it could be Koss, _or Tuvok_ , anyway he’ll just check…

“Do not answer.”

He frowns.

Spock turns to him, leans forward and holds his gaze. “Any messages from the VSA sent via your padd will not be urgent. And if it is Tuvok-”

“Pfft!”

“-Then he can wait until our match is over.”

He rolls his eyes and decides to humor Spock, he just looks so earnest. The padd clacks as it hits the floor by his armchair.

Spock quirks his head, “that will break with such frequent misuse.”

Jim ignores him and reaches for his white bishop, sending it several spaces from the corner of the board. Spock steals his last knight, but that is fine, he hadn’t noticed that by moving for Jim’s queen, he’d left a viable opening for Jim to attack.

“Check.” He grins slyly.

Spock looks flabbergasted for a moment, his thick brows furrow, creasing the skin between his eyes. Jim basks in his victory and lifts his drink to his lips, draining the last of his tea.

A minute change in Spock’s facial muscles cue him in that the Vulcan is smiling, albeit slyly, what-

Spock’s fingers brush against his as he reaches suddenly out to steady Jim’s teacup.

“More tea?” The Vulcan asks innocently, and refills Jim’s cup without waiting for an answer.

He would have told him no if not for the wonderful tingling running up the length of his arm, Jim sits rigidly in his seat, in shock really, and waits for Spock to finish.

_Those conniving fingers._

The Vulcan finishes and sits back, sips again at his tea slyly.

“…”

Jim refuses to be outplayed by Spock, the Vulcan who sits in his laboratory all day with his experiments and has _no_ business being sexy.

And he can’t fathom why all of a sudden that Spock is interested in him that way.

He just fucking kissed him.

And they were both pretending it _hadn’t_ happened.

_What the hell was going on?_

“Oh, thank you.” Jim replies casually, shifting in his seat. He extends two fingers and brings them to the edge of his cup, “but do you think this is too hot?” he questions, and dips them into his tea.

Spock quirks an eyebrow. “There is no reason for it to be above an acceptable degree of temperature.”

“You’re right, “ he responds, and _purposefully_ sucks the droplets from his fingers. “ _Mmmh_ , this is really good tea.”

Spock stares, inhales stiffly through his nose.

He may have become a master at chess, which was fine, Jim could accept that he was out of his league, _except_ -

The Vulcan regained his composure and folded his hands neatly I his lap. “I will be successful our next match.”

Jim’s eyes narrowed, now paranoid that each statement from Spock’s mouth was filled with innuendo.

 

- _Except_ , if Spock wanted for _this thing,_ this flirtation he had began so unexpectedly between them to happen, then itwould be under _Jim’s terms._

Because in this sort ofgame _,_ Jim _outclassed him._

 

 


	14. Ad Interim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim bends and hisses, “You lack control,” a perfect insult to any Vulcan.
> 
> “I had hoped we would part on good terms...” Jim says lowly.
> 
> Brown eyes glare up at him indignantly.
> 
> “We are not.”
> 
> ******WARNING: ATTEMPT'D NON CON

 

           

14 Ad Interim

Jim came to awareness suddenly, as one does when woken in the midst of a deep sleep, abruptly and for no apparent reason except that something in the room had changed. Except that Jim was not dozing lazily in his bed, or even in the house, he was reclined chest deep in the sand bath. He cracked one blue eye open and peered blearily across the orange sand.

 

 _'It better not be another shatarr,_ ' he thought bleakly as the grey and blue blur took shape.

 

Long grey-black legs, bluish tinged blur of a torso, dark mop of a head. ‘ _Oh_ ,’ he thought as the image came into focus, ‘ _it’s Spock._ ’

“Hello,” he croaked.

Spock shifted, “Jim, may I join you?”

The metaphorical cogs in Jim’s brain jammed, “In. The. Bath?”

 

“Where else?”

 

He was immediately struck with the horror of how hopeless his situation was. He could find no logical argument against Spock’s request; he really didn’t like the idea of Spock joining him in the sand pool, (he _fucking_ _loved_ it) while he was naked, it made him feel _skeevy_. It was guaranteed that he would molest the poor Vulcan (mentally not physically of course) the entirety of their shared bath.

His heart fluttered anxiously in anticipation.

“Sure.” Jim made a vague gesture, a flippant wave of his hand and dipped his head back, shielding his eyes with his face cloth. Some part of him hoped through to the stratosphere that the face cloth would act as a shield to- _Cochrane’s engine_ \- Spock undressing.

Spock took Jim’s vague acquiescence as the go ahead to start stripping. It made sense he knew, baths, well you took those nude, but he had expected Spock to stay _layered_.

And there went his blue top.

From his position, head tipped far back, he watched the Vulcan divest himself of his clothing through the tiny gap from by the cloth draped over the bridge of his nose.

He should close his eyes, give the man some privacy.

The last time (the only time) he had seen Spock shirtless, he had only time enough for a glimpse, a quick scan of his impressive physique, before averting his eyes in shock and embarrassment. All he remembered of the occasion was the affirmation that _yes_ , Spock was fit and it was _nice_. Now however, he had time and proximity to really _see_.

Jim urged himself to stay still and appear nonchalant, a cruel contrast to the thrill building all through his nervous system. Spock’s top removed, his bare chest bared to the orange sun, Jim tracked the path of the dark hair trailing down his abdomen to its terminus at the band of his black trousers.

His throat swallowed reflexively.

Next would be-long fingers started work on the button, worked the fly down and- _Jim couldn’t_.

He closed his eyes, ears attuned to the sounds of clothing ruffling, waited a moment and opened them again just as Spock bent, dipped for his descent into the pool.

A muscled thigh, the slight curve of his ass, Jim tried to look everywhere except for the shadowed shape of his cock.  It was over in a millisecond, ended naturally with Spock reclined across from him, arms draped comfortably over the edges of the pool.

It was unfair how relaxed he could look.

Fucking Vulcan stoicism.

At least he could chalk this frankly abnormal behavior to _the chess game._

And was this game to Spock? Up the ante, raise the tension until it was so high that Jim cracked and made the first move? It was so juvenile and stupid and obvious-it would work on Jim Kirk. How could he resist playing along, it was practically a game of Vulcan chicken- who would lose control first?

It was a given that he’d play along, he just needed to know, why now? Why was Spock so suddenly (blatantly) baiting him.

It was driving him nuts.

Curiosity killed Kirk.

If neither of them broke, which was a possibility because they were both so damm stubborn, he wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up trading hand jobs under the guise of scientific research.

But seriously?

Jim should probably stop playing possum and engage him in some form of conversation; it would appear too obvious for him to continue acting so oblivious.

The washcloth was removed with a flourish and he sat up, grinning slyly (like a pervert, he thought) a playful twinkle in his eye.

“So Spock, what brings you to my sand bath?”

The Vulcan looked at him. “I have often noted how relaxed you appear after bathing here, and I have twice found the experience to have similar effects on myself. Also, have you not stated that shared public bathing is common on your planet? I had thought to test the experience between us.”

No faulting him there.

“Ah, I suppose I had said something like that, yeah. But, you don’t find this…indelicate? Most Vulcan’s are very _conservative_.”

Spock inclined his head, his lower eyelids lifting, “I do not mind sharing such intimacies with you.”

Jim’s pulse skyrocketed.

Flirting via subtle word games? Totally Vulcan, and totally seductive coming from Spock.

 _‘Keep it up Spock’_ Jim thought, ‘ _or I won’t be getting out of here without a cup or under the guise of darkness.’_

\-----o-------------o--------------------------o------------------------o----------

 

Generally Spock took some time to come to a decision on an important matter, unless of course the matter was so clearly defined that extended consideration was warranted. Take for example, Spock’s relations with Jim Kirk. Decision making regarding the human was generally an extensive process, requiring numerous meditations. And really, intimate relationships (friendships) should warrant informed and careful consideration. Such had been the case between them and Spock accepted this, and prepared for it at each mutation, each change in their relationship. He had been ready to spend several days pondering over the vague and irrational need for _more_ when in contact with Jim.

Except that every time Jim raised a glass to his lips he thought, that mouth, it has been wrapped around Tuvok’s cock. And every time Jim wrapped those same supple pink lips around his fingers, he thought, for Tuvok, Jim has done this too. Every accidental slip of clothing, each sliver of skin revealed by careless stretching, this was Tuvok’s first to purview. The warm embrace that had been Spock’s saving grace in the waters of Raal, Tuvok had been the Vulcan to know it intimately.

The first to kiss, the first to touch-

And surely, Tuvok had often felt the brush of Jim’s vibrant mind against his.

It sickened him.

Tuvok had been callous in his care of Jim, could surely not appreciate the human, cherish Jim’s companionship at the magnitude which Spock now did.

That he shared his bed so ungratefully-

Well, as soon as the thought materialized in his mind Spock knew, he accepted the change with an ease that surprised him afterwards. So enormous a thing appeared so simple in his mind’s eye, why should it not feel easy to desire Jim Kirk? Was it not the simplest thing to cherish and adore him? The man who had of late infused Spock’s life with so much meaning, so much happiness? He marveled at how the first recognition of friendship had sent him into a panic, and yet this he registered with ease, relief almost.

Until he thought of Tuvok, his rival for Jim’s attentions.

Spock didn’t like the idea of competing for Jim’s attentions like the pre Surakian Vulcan’s of old, and so he decided to make his intentions clear, to present them to Jim as plainly as he knew how.

He intended to begin his courtship of Jim Kirk, the first Spock had undertaken.

Jim would make a decision on the matter.

Spock felt confident in his success.

That nerve wracking moment when he had kissed Jim after their chess match, he had steadily lead up to it throughout the match, broadcasted his intentions before Jim with intimate caresses naturally and heated glances. He had watched carefully for signs of discomfort and rejection, the tensing of the eyelids, tightening of the jaw, hitch in his shoulders, the shallow measured breathing that indicated Jim was angered and he noted none of these phenomena. Nor did he observe the fast paced respirations, raised brows, or closed body language that was characteristic of Jim when in emotional distress. What he had read from Jim was open, relaxed body language, subtle smiles, a curious quirk of a brow, the startled jolt he’d tried to disguise at Spock’s first caress and the intrigue he’d felt bleed through their contact. And while curiosity wasn’t exactly discouraging, Spock had taken the lack of negative responses and Jim’s curiosity with a positive outlook.

However, he had been…unsure, that was until Jim had, much to his surprise, blatantly, purposefully in casual terms, teased him. When Jim’s plush lips had needlessly wrapped around his index fingers, when his gaze captured Spock’s and he had wantonly moaned, desire ran hot through him, igniting neurons through his spine, arousal took root in his abdomen, he had felt his cock twitch.

So Jim was curious, possibly interested, but not enough to engage in a serious romantic or sexual overture.

He had seen the assessing way Jim’s eyes had raked over his body during their shared bath. It had been a gamble on his part, being so forward but he was sure now that Jim found him _at least_ physically attractive.

Jim asked him if it was not indelicate to be bathing together such as they were.

In any other company it would be, but Spock would not tell him this.

“I do not mind sharing such intimacies with you,” he flirted.

He saw Jim’s eyes dart and watched the rise and fall of his chest as his pulse increased. His eyes strayed, darting between Spock’s chest and mouth.

Spock wondered if he had any idea he was doing it.

“ _fuck me…”_ Jim mumbled under his breath, but Spock’s superior Vulcan hearing picked it up.

What a curious expression.

Jim squinted at him, his lower eyelids crinkling familiarly as he worked out his next thought. His index and middle finger drumming absently across his lips.

“Mister Spock you continuously surprise me, just when I have you pegged you go and do something unpredictable.”

Spock arches a brow.

“I think that is why I find you so endearing.”

Spock tries to think of a witty rejoinder to make light of the compliment but comes up with nothing. He looks away, momentarily overwhelmed. “Thank you.”

His human smiles at him serenely and they sit for a time in silence. Jim’s eyes drift closed and Spock takes advantage of his blindness to admire the angles and symmetry of his face.

“Well,” Jim blurts at random, “I’m baked. I’ll see you inside.” He moves to lift himself from the sand and stops, both hands planted, arms bent in right angles and glances self consciously at him, suddenly realizing that Spock would be witness to his departure.

His head darts and he shifts himself into several positions, before suddenly stopping in his original pose, sighing loudly. He pauses, rolls his eyes in the manner that Spock recognizes as annoyance and then hoists himself from the sand.

The muscles all along his arms and back flex beautifully. Spock notes a long scar tracing the line of his hip, then is taken in by the seductive movement of his rear while he bends and erects himself after retrieving his towel.

What would it be like to grasp each globe in hand, to trace his thumbs down the centre and part them-

Jim catches him staring, blue eyes widening comically, and he feels ashamed. Jim fumbles with the white cloth, wrapping himself haphazardly before trotting quickly away.

 

Spock sighs.

 

He reaches over and takes possession of Jim’s abandoned face cloth, leans back and drapes it over his eyes.

\---o----------------o---------------------------------o

 

Spock avoids Jim for the remainder of the day. There is a particularly interesting strain of bacteria with an abnormal growth rate he must take notes on. He uses the solitude of his lab and familiarity of his experiments to collect himself.

It would not help to gain Jim’s favor by sexually objectifying him while his back was turned.

That was not what his seduction was about.

He wanted all of Jim, not just his symmetrical, supple, round-

“The rate of decay is calculated by one hundred E to the power of zero point two to the second decimal multiplied by five, equaling approximately one hundred ten point five hundred seventeen.”

\-----o-----o----

 

During dinner Jim sits diagonally from him, sipping at a large glass of juice.

Unbidden the image of Jim’s lips wrapped around an erect Vulcan penis- _his_ \- rises foremost in his thoughts.

He snaps his favourite chopsticks in half.

Jim’s eyes are two blue saucers, his mouth perfectly parted, just like in his vision-

 

“Excuse me.”

\-----o---o--------------o--------

 

No self respecting Vulcan would tolerate such rampant dyscontrol of their thoughts. Ever since he consciously accepted his feelings for Jim and decided to act on them it was like a metaphorical flood gate had unlocked within him.

His emotions and reactions had been escalating.

How would Jim have put it? He had been victim to instances of gross….overreactions.

But was it not uncanny how closely Jim resembled S’laron of the fable of the firebird? Any Vulcan would stand in awe of how excellently Jim had mastered the beginning steps of pon iffla, matching Spock not in grace, but in the overpowering confidence of his every step. And when Jim awoke in the morning, golden hair in disarray, cheeks still puffy with sleep, after laying cocooned in his nest of blankets for eight hours, how could Spock not stand transfixed, not with the scent of him, overpowering and disarmingly intimate?

He stiffens in his trousers.

For a panicked moment Spock wonders if he is experiencing the first waves of pon farr. He is too young still to fit into the age group, but not outrageously so. But these urges of his-the instances of _awe_ and _want_ and _more_ , they did not feel like the mere products of a biological drive.

And yet to traverse each day without making a spectacle of himself meditation was strictly necessary.

\---o----------------------------------o------o

 

Jim stretched languidly on the cushions of the sitting room.

Tuvok had been messaging him like crazy and he debated going to his padd and messaging the Vulcan back. He needed a break from Spock’s smoldering gazes and goddamed sexy banter so he headed to his room to grab his gear. Honestly, he wouldn’t last much longer if Spock kept it up.

All that fucking looking at him.

And then conveniently _not looking_ at him so that Jim could look secretly _on purpose._

 

And those hands!

 

Jim wasn’t Vulcan but if he was, well all those _particular_ gestures would be terrifically arousing.

And if they played ‘ _chess’_ one more time and ‘ _brushed’_ hands, he was going to flip the fucking chessboard and suck Spock’s tongue out of his mouth.

Hence going to see Tuvok, he was such a good distraction.

Jim picks up his padd and starts mulling over a response to Tuvok when he realizes the message he just received isn’t from him at all, it’s from N’Veyan.

Well that’s actually a pleasant surprise.

Apparently the rest of the V’tosh ka’tur are departing in two days time and they’re inviting him to, _“ a last supper.”_

Jim startles cackling.

He pictures N’Veyan and his long hair gesturing expansively across a long banquet table, his lavender easy suit a beacon over the mass of food and wine. Jim snorts, too bad his hosts wouldn’t get the reference.

Dinner party, should he wear something fancy?

Jim takes in his _overflowing_ wardrobe, his two tops and three sets of the same pants in different shades, fifteen pairs in varying colours of briefs (Why of all things had Spock gone overboard with those he had no idea, he wasn’t that fucking dirty) and his ‘repaired’ jumpsuit (because he couldn’t not have a flight suit, that would be _blasphemous_ ).

Did shirt one clash with pant two?

He was happy Vulcan’s didn’t seem to really care about that sort of thing.

Jim scrunches up his face and tries to work out of he’d made any plans with Spock before leaving. He guesses he could at least leave another note. Yeah, that was probably a good idea. Spock hated (he was pretty sure) Tuvok and would probably give him the, ‘ _Jim, I am displeased with your decision, I expect better of you,_ ’ look.

But he doubted he’d run into him, Spock had been pretty scarce the past few days.

Jim rubbed his chin. The last he saw him, he had been under the kitchen sink trying to unclog the J pipe…Yeah, and Spock had shuffled in with a cup of tea and started blinking, excessively. It looked like there was something in his eye, perhaps dust, from _all the shit_ under the goddamed J pipe. Except Spock began babbling _equations_ and booked it, no contact since.

Spock sometimes acts like this when dealing with emotional revelations.

Maybe he is having second thoughts about his thoughts about Jim and well, you get the idea.

The wind is fierce and a sand storm is just starting up as he leaves the house, which is just great, because sand in his _every_ orifice is just how Jim likes it. He pulls his cloak tightly around himself and thanks the VSA or whoever made the new face mask that’s keeping his heavenly visage from being buffered like a mahogany dinner table.

His boots dig into the sand and make _scrunch scrunch_ noises that are swept away by the howling gales. As far as the eyes can see orange yellow sand whirls in clouds. He absently wonders if Vulcan has sand tornados.

He thinks of the year long storms of Saturn.

Not soon enough, after stumbling twice and getting nicked by a flying pebble, the building comes into view. It took him longer than usual but he made better time than expected considering and gives himself a pat on the shoulder.

Jim takes shelter in the arch of the door and waits for someone, _anyone please_ , to answer his chime.

The wind continues to howl.

And isn’t it the best fucking thing ever when N’Veyan himself comes to his recue, wearing none other than _lavender robes_. He gestures expansively to, “Welcome Jim Kirk, you are well received,” and it’s too much like a scene from _any_ and _every_ bible related fiction for him to not burst into hysterical fits of laughter.

N’Veyan stares at him as he clutches at the archway, his face contorted in confusion as Jim cackles like a hyena.

_Alien Jesus has invited me to his last supper and come to rescue me from this plague of sand._

Jim controls himself (miraculously) and straightens up, clapping him on the shoulder roughly, much to his host’s chagrin. “It’s good to see you again N’Veyan,” he says and moves past him into the building.

\---o----o-----------------------o

 

The party, if that’s what you can call it, is exactly what you expect it to be, only slightly more exciting. There is a decanter of a blue liquid called Andorian Ale that Jim desperately wants to partake of. The Vulcans have congregated in the solarium and it’s actually kind of nice, low key, and sort of relaxing in the way that Vulcans don’t do anything over stimulating.

Tuvok is pretty scarce, he keeps his distance, and Jim appreciates that the guy has figured out that he really pissed him off. He chats with N’Veyan and others and eyes the ale longingly, warring internally with himself; ‘ _should I?_ Or _shouldn’t I_?’

The tuber root he’d been snacking on should be enough, but the pretty blue ale is so enticing.

Jim wants.

Jim should be drinking that.

Except that midway through the evening just as Jim is moving righteously toward the blue decanter Tuvok filters through the crowd, tail between his legs, headed straight for Jim.

Jim rolls his eyes and readies himself for a pleading ‘please forgive me,’ from Tuvok.

He supposes it was kind of rude to so abruptly cut off contact with the guy, but Jim was just _so over it_. The more he thought about Tuvok’s jealous behavior, the less attractive he grew.

But does he really want this to happen in the middle of a crowded room? It could get embarrassing, ‘Jim, please forgive me for being unnecessarily rough with you during our coupling.’

No thank you, he did not need the elves and their super hearing tuning in on that conversation.

“Jim,” Tuvok says lowly, “I…If I could have a moment of your time?” He shifts nervously and clutches a blue glass of ale.

Bingo!

Embarrassment averted.

Jim looks at him, takes greedy pleasure in his nervous squirming and replies, “Sure,” jerking his head in the direction of the foyer.

They stop in the arch of a doorway where Tuvok takes a frantic sip of his ale, fortifying himself no doubt.

Jim waits patiently.

“During our last encounter I was needlessly rough with you,” Tuvok starts.

He grunts in agreement.

“I…I felt jealously, illogically I felt jealous of your companionship with S’chn T’gai Spock, I was overcome by the depth of my regard for you.”

Jim stands aghast. “Then you should have told me Tuvok, instead of acting like a witless animal! That’s ridiculous!”

The Vulcan shakes his head, “I know Jim, words cannot describe it, let me show you-“ he raises a hand, fingers outstretched.

Jim blinks, brow furrowing. ‘ _What is he_ …’

Tuvok approached him slowly, as one does a wounded animal. “Enter my mind and see the depth of my regard for you.”

 

 _'That’s not_ -‘

 

Jim doesn’t want _anyone_ in his mind. He recoils in disgust, back slamming into the archway with the force of his retreat. He glares darkly at Tuvok. “No thanks,” he utters, shaking his head, “I don’t want that.”

_‘I don’t trust you enough for that.’_

Tuvok shakes, he throws his ale across the hall, the blue glass shattering prettily all over the tiling. “Jim please! If you could just see, let me show you-” Tuvok is on him, that same offensive hand reaching for his face, seeking that tingling contact, seeking his mind.

The contact tingles, dizzying as it dances along his temple.

“My mind to your m-”

This shit stops now.

And then Jim is finally reacting, thrusters on full. He twists away from Tuvok’s touch, right hand coming up to grab him by the wrist, yanking it downward. He uses his momentum to pull him off his center of gravity, sweeps one leg out from under him. He sees Tuvok flail for purchase as he tips toward the wall. Jim swats him away and clocks Tuvok in the nose with the heel of his palm, hard. The resounding crack of his nose breaking, which he _feels_ and _hears_ , is more than satisfying.

Tuvok crumples.

He kneels clutching at his broken nose pathetically at Jim’s feet.

It should be enough to see his assaulter brought to his very knees before him, but as it stands Jim can’t resist a parting blow. “You know that last encounter between us wasn’t entirely your fault, I did enjoy it, _mostly_. But the more I thought about the sentiment behind it the less attractive you grew.”

Jim bends and hisses, “You lack control,” a perfect insult to any Vulcan.

Tuvok groans.

 

 “I had hoped we would part on good terms...” Jim says lowly.

 

Watering brown eyes glare up at him indignantly.

 

 

“We are not.”  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BURN! Was it too much?
> 
> ehh.


	15. Andorian Ale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was this inevitable or was Spock just acting like a hormonal Sehlat?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohho man, i know this is short, but it should make up for it >.>

 

                15 Andorian Ale

(The UST continues)

Jim stormed into the solarium. He moved through the crowd of Vulcans effortlessly, headed resolutely for his target. The buffet table appeared before him after an anticlimactic parting of Vulcan robes. He reached out a hand and snatched the blue decanter from it.

As far as Jim Kirk was concerned he had goddamed earned it.

In the same fluid motion he pivoted his hips, bringing the decanter to his lips for a rushed swig of its contents.

The liquid burned going down.

He swallowed with a loud smack of his lips, brushing a stray blue droplet from his chin as he strode away. Yeah, he was done here, and he was taking the ale as his prize. The V’tosh Ka’tur were too distracted to notice his theft. He nodded casually at several as he made his way to _\- aw shit_ his stuff was in the foyer.

With Tuvok.

 _Well fuck him_ , Jim thought, round two will involve Ale, _in his eyes._

He adjusted his grip on the bottle and stalked into the dark of the hall.

Astonishingly, he met no one on his way through. He stopped at the door, where his goggles and things were assembled. Gingerly he placed the ale before his feet. He moved to place his back to the door and warily  began to dress, he didn’t want any surprises. As he placed his hand on the door he looked once more around him, searching the shadows for leering eyes.

He opened the entrance to a tempest of orange and yellow. The storm still raged on, the wind howled and whipped his cloak franticly around him. Jim stepped into it, and out of the house.

\---o---

Once home he was ready to be less sober, and more inebriated.

He placed the ale on a table in the sitting room and called for Spock.

Jim passed several minutes waiting impatiently for his arrival.

“Uhg!” Jim sighed, disgusted. “Spock!” he called and bounded to the doorway, intent on seeking the Vulcan out in his laboratory.

He nearly toppled over when he ran into Spock’s chest.

“Oof!” he grunted in surprise.

“Jim? My apologizes, I did not expect you so suddenly.” Spock frowned at him quizzically. “I heard you calling from the lab?”

Jim looks at him and then tugs petulantly at his shirtsleeve, “Yes, come see what I stole from your favourite Vulcan’s.”

Spock quirked an eyebrow and Jim tracked the movement of his eyes, noted the exact moment they found his prize. “Andorian Ale?” Spock questioned in disbelief.

Jim laughed. “Yup! I stole it from the V’tosh ka’tur’s buffet table. It’s pretty strong. We should drink it.”

Spock moved past him to the decanter, lifting it delicately. He removed the stopper and sniffed. “This is a controlled substance. Illegal on Vulcan.”

Jim blinked, “No way!”

Spock nodded and took a sip from the decanter. “Indeed. Coincidentally I have a bottle of my own hidden under my laboratory desk.”

Jim’s metaphorical jaw hit the floor. A slow, predatory grin stretched across his face. “Why Mister Spock,” he said with a swagger, “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

They stepped closer.

Spock replied with a dark smirk of his own, “Naturally. There are several things you have yet to learn about me.” He took another, longer sip from the bottle, capturing Jim’s gaze with his own.

Jim reached out, and Spock passed the bottle to him.

They drank together, passing the bottle back and forth. They sat diagonally from one another and yet ridiculously close, knees entangled. Jim could feel the warmth from Spock seeping up his thigh. It was nice. The ale buzzed along inside him.

Jim rested sloppily on one hand, elbow perched crookedly on the arm rest by Spock. In fact, he was practically leaning on Spock, who didn’t seem to mind the violation of personal space. Spock’s closest arm was draped nearly around Jim, (would be if the furniture wasn’t in the way, or if they were actually sitting together on the couch, but whatever).

“Hey Spock,” Jim’s eyes slid over.

“Mmm?”

He wiggled his fingers by his temple, “A mind meld…”

Spock perked up at the mention, something lighting his eyes.

Jim didn’t really know how to proceed. “Does it start like…this?” He asked and touched those same fingers to the vulcan’s temple.

Spock turned his head into them when they made contact. He brought a hand up to stroke along Jim’s with his forefingers. “Yes,” he uttered.

Jim shuddered, arousal burned hot along his body. Spock’s fingers continued to stroke along his hand, moving slowly up his wrist and down again to grasp his palm. The sensation he felt was unlike what occurred when Tuvok had touched him earlier, or at all.

He liked this so much more.

Spock snarled, “Cease your thoughts of Tuvok, you are with me.”

Jim froze. “You got that through the mind meld?”

He hadn’t thought it was that simple, shouldn’t there have been a disembodied Spock voice floating around in his head? Oh shit had they just really-

“No. Jim we did not just meld, I could sense it through your touch. You have very… loud thoughts.”

They were no longer touching, but it looked like Spock was ready to tackle him to the floor. Which Jim found ridiculously attractive, because anything Spock did was ridiculously attractive.

It was beginning to be a theme.

“But-But earlier, Spock, Tuvok tried that, and he said,” and here he began a mimicry of the vulcan’s voice, “my mind to your mind-”

He looked to Spock before continuing and saw that he had gone rigid.

Oh crap.

His hand gripped the fabric of the couch roughly.

“Jim,” he started, “did he attempt to meld with you against your will?”

It was terrifying how a complete lack of inflection could send a chill down Jim’s spine.

“Yeah, so I broke his nose.”

Spock exhaled loudly and Jim watched him deflate visibly, thought he still noted a lingering tension in his shoulders.

“You broke his nose?”

“And I threw him to the floor.” Jim added proudly, (who says he and his inferior human strength couldn’t kick Vulcan ass?).

“What I would have given to see that.” Spock comments, “Though I would have given more to be the one to break something of his,” he added darkly.

Jim licked his lips.

Spock watches the motion and moves to card his fingers through Jim’s hair. Jim allows this.

“You should no longer have contact with him.”

He nods, “They’re leaving the day after tomorrow. I’m done with them. This is what you were warning me about in the beginning wasn’t it?”

Spock nods, not really looking at Jim, focused on the path his fingers traced as they brushed down the tendons of Jim’s neck and into the collar of his shirt.

Jim swallows.

It’s kind of hard to be serious with Spock essentially kissing his way down his neck.

Spock looked at him then, obviously having sensed something of what Jim was thinking and it feels like their on the cusp of something, the next move will bring them somewhere else entirely and he’s not so sure that he’s ready for it.

Spock’s eyes flick to his mouth and then to his fingers, slowly traversing the path of his collar bone, dipping slightly into his shirt.

“N-No.” he blurts, shattering the moment.

Spock stops, looks to Jim, eyes searching.

Jim inhales and exhales. He doesn’t know what to say, or even how to explain himself, he has no idea, he has absolutely no idea so he just sits there breathing in and out.

Spock looks sidelong at him quietly, and he doesn’t seem perturbed by the turn of events. He isn’t insulted that Jim is running hot and cold.

The Vulcan takes a last drought of ale and places his hands on his thighs, readying to stand. “Should I leave you to your thoughts Jim?”

“Please.”

\---o---

That night Spock does something he is ashamed of.

His mind dwells on what he had learned from Jim, of the incident with Tuvok. He should feel revulsion, should perhaps dwell on the magnitude of what almost occurred in Shikahr.

But Jim kissed him.

Jim took pleasure in his touches, his kisses, his caresses. Jim allowed them, _welcomed them_.

Spock holds in a groan.

He had been able to feel every emotion bleed through their contact, had been able to catch stray thoughts as he trailed his fingertips along Jim’s soft wrist, up the traced the tendons up his inner arm, down his neck, into his collar.

Everything he gleaned was, _lust, want, ‘good,’ ‘more,’ pleasure, ‘Spock,’ contentment_. There was no doubt in his mind that Jim wanted him as a lover. And as far as he had been concerned at the time, they could have become so then and there except suddenly Jim’s thoughts flashed _revulsion and ‘Tuvok!’_

 He snarls again as he had then.

Spock wants Jim to think only of him.

He needs Jim to want only him.

He thinks again of how soft and warm the exposed skin of Jim’s neck had been, remembers how badly he’d wanted to expose more of it, to divest Jim of that noisome yellow shirt. He’d reveled in how the human’s pulse had fluttered beneath his fingertips.

Spock tries to ignore his building arousal but he has been suffering from poor control in all matters relating to Jim Kirk of late.

The article he’d been reading before bed blurs into a warped image of black and white text.

He cannot focus.

It is gibberish.

Because Jim wanted him back and here he was sitting in bed when he could be with Jim, in Jim’s bed, or Jim could be here, or anywhere, he could be anywhere other than here, alone in his bed, without Jim.

He wants Jim, to hold Jim, to kiss Jim, to pleasure Jim, to part him open, lick inside-

 

Spock hisses and presses the flat of his palm over his erection.

 

Was this inevitable or was Spock just acting like a hormonal Sehlat?

 

“Uhg!” He groans and slips his hand into his trousers, seeking out- _Yes, There_!

 

“ah!”

 

\---o---o------------------------o---------------

Jim is in the shower and Spock is sweeping the hallway when the door chimes the next day.

“Curious, we were not expecting visitors.” It could not be Sybok (as if he would ever lower himself to chiming) nor could it be his father (he shudders to think so).

Perhaps Jim had neglected to mention an appointment with Koss and his assistant?

Spock walks to the door and hits a button, watching it slide open.

The man on the other side is not someone he has ever seen before. _However_ … Spock takes in the causal style of dress, the overly expressive visage, the swollen bridge of his nose-

 

“Scoundrel!” He curses.

 

Tuvok wrings his hands nervously. “S’chn t’gai Spock, please, let me speak my peace! I must have words with Jim Kirk-”

Spock imagines what it would be like to force his fist into the side of his face.

“Oh?” he hisses, “And what could those be? What words of yours have meaning enough to be worth Jim Kirk’s time?”

He leans forward, taking delight in his greater height, eyes narrowing venomously.

Tuvok frowns and juts his chin outward.

“You are sore that I had what you long for, what you have never enjoyed. You are bitter that Jim was mine-”

Spock would throttle him if he had _more_ self control (if he weren’t afraid of _permanent_ damages). “Tell me, what had you in mind when you tried to force a meld with him?” He growls, “That he would cower and accept the intrusion? No self respecting Vulcan would accept _your_ apology. You dishonor him even now with your presumptions!”

Tuvok practically convulses. “I would never-Jim Kirk might- things between _us_ are _different_ , I _need_ to apologize-”

How he would have _loved_ to watch Jim as he shattered this Vulcan’s nasal bone. “ _You need_? How selfish of you-”

“I lost control!” Tuvok roars.

 

“No you lack control! _You never had it.”_

 

Tuvok’s spirit shatters. He looks between Spock and into the house beyond him. His expression is pained, and Spock is not ashamed to have assisted in putting it there.

He hopes his shame will follow him to P’Jem, _and linger_.

Tuvok moves to step back.

 

“Now leave. And never come back.”

 

Spock closes the door before he can respond, locking it for good measure.

He needs ale.

He turns and-

 

 

Exactly how long has Jim been standing there?

 

Jim’s expression is unreadable, eh stands in the centre of the hall with his fists clenched.

Spock watches the shadows play over his face as he approaches. Slowly, determinedly Jim stalks toward him. Had he been too foreword? Is Jim upset with Spock fighting that  battle for him?

He straightens himself, feeling mildly trapped in the narrow corridor, ignores the feeling, and preps himself for Jim’s inevitable comment.

Jim’s voice is hushed, tired. “What was that?”

Spock’s eyes scan his face, searching for any indicator of his emotions and finds none. It is discerning to find himself on the opposite end of things, to be the one at a loss, wishing for Jim to be more expressive.

“He asked to see you. I could not allow him the privilege,” he bites out.

Jim looks at him, fixes him with a paralyzing stare. “And?”

Spock watches his lips form the words.

Somehow he knows there is more, ( _of course there is more)._

_Why did you do it Spock, what are you withholding?_

“I wanted to hurt him for hurting _you_.”

Jim inhales loudly, his eyes blaze. He places one open palm against Spock’s chest and pushes, sending Spock’s back against the door.

His pectorals flex under the hold.

Jim’s eyes scan over him, down and up, his lips part. Spock watches entranced as Jim’s fingers encircle his wrist, slowly bringing it up to rest by his shoulder, trapped too against the door.  Jim leans in closely and continues to breathe, controlled, purposefully as he drags his fingertips sinfully, erotically across Spock’s open palm, over the tips of his own fingers-

 

Spock groans

 

- _and laces them together_.

 

“Jim.”

Jim silences him with the press of his lips against his own. He brings their groins flush to one another and presses, rolls his hips. Spock shudders.

That, the press of Jim’s lips on his own, this must be how humans kiss, he hadn’t considered the possibility, Jim nips at his lower lip- “uh!” the kiss of their fingers, the warmth kneading his groin, Jim’s open palm sliding sensually up his neck, circling around it, the pad of his thumb dragging over the ridge of his jaw, Jim squeezing, _Jim_ -

“Jim!”

“Is this what you wanted?” Jim whispers. “This is what you were leading up to right?”

Spock’s nostrils flair.

He grips Jim’s hair in his hands and tilts his face to look at him, to take in the red flush on his cheeks, his cherry swollen lips.

“I have envisioned this,”  he confesses.

Jim’s pupils dilate.

“Stop talking,” Jim commands, and palms Spock’s crotch.

So Spock lets Jim turn him and march him backwards into the wall, grinding into him so hard that he feels his heart about to hammer out of his side.

And Jim, he knows  _exactly_  what to do with his tongue, with his hands—his talented mechanic hands—his leg, pressed right between Spock’s thighs. Their shirts are rolled all the way up, bunched across their chests, because yanking them off would mean separating lips and hands, and that’s not happening.  Jim kisses him with his fingers like a professional, and what did Spock expect? Jim is surprisingly expert at everything he puts his mind to.

His mind cannot be bothered by coherent thought. They’re here now-finally. And everything is so pent up, there is so much desire and fever in Spock’s body that he can’t stop touching Jim. He must have him.

He’d used up all his control holding himself back and now that Spock had tasted him he wasn’t backing down. He would not be denied, _nothing_ would come between him and Jim.

Spock growled, running his hands over Jim, everywhere they could reach. Jim pants hotly against his neck, hips stuttering when Spock reaches down to the grab at the ass that has been teasing him for months. His hand reaches down between them, unzipping the fly of Jim’s black trousers.

Jim hisses, and moves his hips slightly to ease Spock’s way.

 

 _Yes_.

 

He shoves them down Jim’s thighs and Spares only a second to take in the sight of Jim’s erect cock tenting his red briefs. He sees the wet patch over the bulge and then rolls them down. As soon as Jim springs free of his briefs Spock is on his knees, licking up the length of him with his hot tongue.

And Jim  _breaks_ , hitting his head on the wall behind him and groaning like a whore.

Oh fuck. Jim’s fingers caress his temple in a sweet kiss and them he is gripping Spock by the shoulders and struggling to keep his hips from stuttering.

He slips his mouth quickly over the weeping head of Jim’s flushed cock.  Jim whines, thrusting up into the hot mouth lapping over him.

He tastes good, and Spock’s tongue is quick to lick around the tip, following every curve and vein down the shaft. Licking back up from the bottom, he glances up at Jim who is gripping hard at his shoulders, biting his bottom lip and panting in intervals, clearly trying to remain silent. Spock begins sucking on the tip, careful not to let too much of his teeth graze his skin. And it sounds filthy, because it’s wet and sloppy, and the hall resonates with wet sucks and pops from his mouth working around Jim’s dick.

He pulls off momentarily and Jim groans at the loss. “I want to hear you,” he demands lowly. He kisses down the shaft with his two fingers before taking him in again.

Spock loves this, loves how full his mouth is with Jim, how one of Jim’s hands move to the back of his head and push him down further, until he feels his cock hitting the back of his throat. And Jim keeps moving his hips, keeps thrusting into his mouth and Spock can barely contain his mind from reaching out, from brushing against Jim’s in all of the chaos and ecstasy.

Jim’s mind is a litany of _Spock Spock Spock_ and desire and it increases his desire tenfold. Just feeling Jim there makes him throb. He feels himself leaking in his trousers and longs to alleviate some of the friction, the heat pooling there, but that would mean taking hands off of Jim.

Besides, he’s absolutely gratified by Jim penetrating his mouth.

The pace becomes more rapid, and Jim starts thrusting with the tempo that Spock sets, fingers threading through his short locks. He's so close to coming from the feedback loop bleeding through their contact-

"Admit it," Jim says lowly, his own arousal slipping into his voice, "You were trying to seduce me.”

Spock’s fingers brush against his hole, probing him tantalizingly.

He feels his dick hit the back of Spock’s throat.

His nerve endings light up.

 

"Wait," he gasps, and Spock just sucks on him so eagerly, because he is _not_ giving this up for _anything_.

 

The only response he gets is Spock humming approval around his cock and his deft fingers daggering into the cleft of his ass. Jim says his name and then he’s tilting his head back and letting Spock swallow down his orgasm.


	16. Filler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP, duh.

 

            16 Filler

 

Jim collapsed boneless against the wall. Spock swallowed him down to the very last drop and pulled off, absently licking his lips. “Mmm,” he mumbled, while trailing his hand along Jim’s thigh.

_‘Holy shit, Spock just sucked me off.’_

He fumbled for Spock, his hand whacking the man’s face in the process.

“Jim…”

“This isn’t just fooling around for me, you mean more to me than…” _Tuvok_ , but he really didn’t want to have to say it, _it was implied._

Spock smiled, adorably with his mouth, causing little crinkles to form around his eyes. It made Jim’s heart race. “I know.”

Adorable bastard.

Spock stood, slowly rising from his position on the floor and rested his forehead against Jim’s.

They stood, breathing in each other’s space. “I am going for a sand bath,” Spock said with a strange quirk to his brow. He turned and began to head down the hall, something sly in his walk.

Jim’s face convulsed, weren’t they just having a moment?

He adjusted his pants, refastening the button and fly.

Oh wait, he knew that eyebrow arch-

“Can I come?” he barked, swaggering after him.

Spock stopped and turned, a shit eating grin (metaphorically) on his face, “was the proposition not clear?”

“Heh.” Jim unfastened his pants and jogged after him.

\---o---o-------------------o---------------

 

The timer from one of the experiment stations went off.

Vorik was alarmed because his internal clock had failed to alert him to an approaching deadline.

Vorik was alarmed because the timer had woken him up, from his position, face down on his work bench, in a pile of data-padds.

Most unseemly.

Quite unprofessional from a Vulcan of his status.

He carded his fingers through his unkempt locks and discretely cast his eyes about the lab, desperately hoping that his supervisor had not witnessed him in such a state.

Koss was nowhere in sight.

His shoulders relaxed minutely.

Though it did not mean that Koss had not happened upon him during his….nap.

He was mortified.

Vorik rose from his station, searching for the location of the alert, it could had been any number of timers, of experiments.

The flashing light of the work station by the Enterprise caught his eye.

Could it be?

Excitement made his diaphragm quiver. His legs carried him brusquely toward the station. The Enterprise gleaned under the lights of the laboratory. Vorik opened the read out, the results from the latest algorithm and testing.

His pupils constricted.

“Success!” He exclaimed.

 

These were the coordinates, he’d found Earth.

 

Vorik stood in the same spot, seized in a fit of… well excitement? Enthusiasm? Fervor? For 2.4 minutes, clutching at a hard copy of the coordinates.

It was a blatant loss of control over his emotions.

However there were no witnesses.

Koss would urge him to meditate at a later point.

Vorik cradled the coordinates and withdrew his comm from inside his pocket, dialing Koss.

The call did not go through; he found that odd and highly unlikely. His preceptor was a highly professional, organized Vulcan. The line would most certainly go through; measures would be taken if the comm line was down-

Oh

This was not his comm.

It was…one of the parts from the Enterprise’s control panel.

 

…

 

He walked purposefully over to the ship and quietly ascended the stairs leading into the hull. Expressionless he placed the part on the console and, withdrawing a tool from his belt, utilized it to remove his comm from the console.

 

He withdrew the coordinates from under his one arm and held the comm in his other, looking sagely between them.

 

It occurred to him that he did not know the last time he had tended to his activities of daily living.

When had he last slept, meditated, eaten, ingested fluids?

The fanatical fervor that Koss recurrently reprimanded him for fostering had lead him to this state.

Possibly the discovery of Kirks home coordinates would bargain him out of a reprimand from Koss.

The probability was slim, around…

He was so exhausted he could not even calculate it!

The comm to Koss went through quickly, now that he had the proper technology. “Yes?” his supervisors deep voice rumbled.

“Engineer Koss I have promising news,” he began, “I have discovered the coordinates of Jim Kirk’s home planet.”

“Excellent.” Koss responded.

“And…” Vorik added meekly, “I must request a day of sick leave.”

\---o------o----------

 

Later, after a bath filled with glorious sexual tension, and after openly ogling Spock’s butt as he climbed out from it, he and Spock exchanged a kiss and parted.

As much as Jim wanted to jump inside Spock’s pants and finally (Jupiter’s cock, he had been in DENIAL) _finally_ do _the-do._

But Spock actually had to keep his job.

And Jim wanted to shower, and prepare, for, _you know_ , just in case.

He had powerful plans on luring Spock into a game of chess, if only to seduce him and then fuck him into the cushions.

After a time Jim grew tired of waiting for his…Spock to emerge from his lab. He slinked through the house, searching him out. But then grew distracted when he reached the kitchen and found a bowl of tuber root placed conspicuously in the middle of the table.

‘It’s a trap.’

Jim eyed it suspiciously.

In a millisecond he had his greedy fingers wrapped around one and was munching gluttonously on its end.

“Pfft,” he spewed through his mouthful, “self control.”

Spock stalked into the kitchen somewhere between his third or fourth mouthful.

“I knew this was a trap.” Jim said, chucking the evidence.

“Nonsense,” Spock bantered, voice low, and goddamed, incredibly sexy, “it was a gift for my lover.” And the way he said that made Jim shiver.

And so did the way that Spock stalked towards him, stepping easily into his space, because he had every right to now and sliding his palms up Jim’s naked arms, sending tingling all down his spine.

“Does it please you?” Spock murmured, head tipped towards Jim, voice gone deep and gravely and sending heat flooding down Jim’s spine and holy shit, holy  _shit_ , that was hot. Really, really hot.

‘Well fuck me,’ Jim thought.

He wanted to do the seducing, he had plans! As it stood he was already half hard and leaking in his trousers.

Spock’s eye brow quirked.

His pupils dilated.

Jim’s eyes narrowed, the bastard had totally just read his mind.

“I think you’re trying to get me drunk, so that I’ll put out.”

“That outcome is a high statistical probability, though my gesture was based in purely romantic sentiment, I have no delusions over your response to my actions.”

That was….double speak.

And fuck it all, Jim did want to put out, he wanted very badly. In fact he wanted very _very_ badly to feel Spock in him and all around him and now, but-

“Let’s play chess.” Jim smirked.

A crease formed on Spock’s forehead. His eyes slid minutely toward the hall, vaguely in the direction of their bedrooms and Jim _was not ready_ for that he realized in a panic.

He was not ready for Spock caring for him and being gentle and loving him, if that was possible, so much too soon for someone who had never really been invested romantically in a partner. And yet here he was with an alien who he…cared for and who…cared for him and there were no old wounds or baggage and Jim could just be Jim and not front and all of that was already overwhelming.

So no, they would not be going to the bed and get tangled up in Spock’s sheets, because that’s where Jim knew they would go, he just _knew._

They would, they really would and maybe soon, but not too soon. Jim didn’t trust himself with too much too soon.

Spock caved, quirked his eyebrow in a way that Jim knew was the equivalent of an eye roll and allowed Jim to lead him into the sitting room.

Jim had plans but in light of …things, he thought to eliminate some steps. He laced his fingers through Spock’s and pressed their palms together, smiling heavy lidded up at Spock.

“Jim…” he growled in warning.

Jim glanced over at the assembled chess board on the coffee table, they had left it mid game, pieces of black and white frozen in battle on the checkered board.

Jim reached out with his free hand and backhanded the chess pieces, scattering them onto the floor.

“Checkmate.”

Spock’s face convulsed, “Jim, that is not-“

Jim cut him off by surging upward and sealing his mouth onto his.

“mmph!”

Yeah, chess whatever, that backhand was sexy.

Spock didn’t exactly seem to  _mind_ , at least.

The taller man groaned, one hand coming up to grasp at a shoulder and the other curling around his waist as the kiss deepened. A thigh pushed its way between his legs and he knew Spock could feel just how hard he was right now and it didn't matter because there was an answering hardness pressed into his hip.

Spock’s hand slid down his back, both disappearing from him and then returning, scrabbling at his side. There was a dull ripping noise and as the seam to his shirt was rent.

“Here, let me just-“ and Jim tried to ease his way, lifted his arm and attempted to help wiggle out of his top but Spock kept pulling, yanked the top clean over his head, torn seams and all.

Collateral damage.

Then-

 _Contact_.

Those same hands were touching Jim’s bare skin. He hissed into the kiss, for that’s what it was, when Spock dragged his fingers sinfully down and down his chest and down the planes of his abdomen. Nerve endings lit up, it felt like he was being branded as those fingers passes across his ribs. Jim abruptly felt a large heated palm beneath his ass, squeezing, grabbing, Spock’s hip thrust upward and then he was being hoisted, tipping backwards onto the couch.

"Jim," Spock growled, breaking the kiss as he moved over him fully, dragging his hips against Jim’s, rocking into him and groaned heavily. He watched the motion and then dragged his eyes slowly up Jim’s body, fingers twined into Jim’s hair, tugging just on the right side of hard and then _those eyes_ , holy shit, _yes_ , dark and pupils blown and _all_ for Jim.

Jim moaned into the next kiss, this time mouth to mouth and then arched up sharply as Spock’s hand returned to his bare skin on his stomach. All of a sudden Jim wanted to be naked and naked _now._ He tugged at his pants, fumbling with the button, goddamit why had he put these back on, why did he insist on wearing pants to a seduction? Spock hummed in approval, sat up and watched the proceedings with levity.

“Jim, allow me.” He Spock, voice gone gravely and deep in a way that just made Jim more anxious to get the dam things off. The vulcan swatted Jim’s own fingers away, deftly working the pants open, slipped the tips of a couple of fingers below the fabric and tugged.

“Uh.” Jim sighed as he felt the offending fabric slip from his body. The pressure on his erection lessened some. He felt the rise and fall of his chest and heard the hitch in Spock’s breath. The Vulcan was eying Jim’s erection, thinly veiled by the red fabric of his briefs. He reached out and palmed it, fingers running up and down the length just once and then squeezing it.

“Shit!” He barked, arching involuntarily into the feeling.

Spock leaned back as if the survey his work, a flushed barley clad Jim Kirk panting beneath him. Jim watched him divest his clothing, first the characteristic blue top, the black slacks, the underclothes. And holy shit, Spock was so much more impressive like this, up close, than he was the first time, or the time in the bath, than any other time Jim had looked at him. He was all muscled lines and perfect angles, dark hair trailing down his chest, down his navel leading to his cock, standing green and hard and again, _all for Jim._

Jim felt a little thrill rush through him. He made Spock’s stoicism crack, he made him want to escape from his prim and ordered routine and he wanted to keep doing it, again, and again and again. So he rose up, sliding his arms around Spock’s necks and lower back, pulled him in close and kissed him full on the mouth, tongue licking out, teeth biting in his lower lip. Spock responded in full, hands coming up to clasp as Jim’s shoulders, half pushing half pulling Jim to him. Spock’s tongue licked against his in a way that made him tingle. Jim continued the kiss, not backing off until his lips were obscenely red and swollen and when he pulled off and saw Spock in a similar state he had to restrain himself from surging back in.

“Okay,” he breathed and pushed Spock down onto his back. His hands find Spock’s and he brings them up to the hem of his briefs, he hooks his fingers in and waits for Spock to get the right idea. He watches the expression on Spock’s face, he watches him watch as he pulls the fabric down and off of Jim, freeing Jim’s straining erection and watches it bob, he sees how Spock’s eyes narrow in pleasure at the sight.

It makes Jim long for Spock’s mouth wrapped around him again.

He shuffles forward until he is straddling his partner, legs on either side of Spock’s hips.

"Jim," Spock’s voice sounded desperate, but it also sounded like he was striving for control as well. "Do you want this? …" His hands rest on Jim’s hips, each thumb rubs at the jut of his hip bones.

Jim wants, he wants very much and feels his knees get shaky. He stares down with hooded eyes, and rests his hands on Spock’s shoulders. And then Spock's tongue, hot and wet licks over a strip of skin by the bone of his hip and he shudders. Tease.

Jim _adores_ that mouth.

Spock’s hand sneaks around to press against Jim’s lower back and he's rubbing his mouth over him, breathing him in, rubbing his cheek against him and he's tugging at him until Jim’s standing over him and wow those are Spock’s hands groping and palming at his ass, lifting and parting him open.

Jim arches his back, groans, because he can’t wait for Spock to just take him already and fill him up.

"Please." God that can't be his voice. Jim wets his lips and tries again. "Spock. You have to—can't toy with me. Need—"

Spock growls against him and Jim feels a rush of blood south when he is dragged down and feels Spock’s dick nudge against his balls.

 

_Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck-_

 

Spock’s fingers probe his rim, which excites him, so _so_ much so Jim keens, tries to arch back into them but Spock’s other hand holds him fast by the ass, squeezes him hard to hold him in place, so instead he tried to rut forward, to drag himself along Spock’s chest. Spock mouths across his abdomen as one finger slips readily inside.

A second fingers probes and enters him soon after.

Spock’s voice sends vibrations through him, “you prepared yourself for me.”

“I’m a good boy,” Jim breathes shakily when Spock withdraws his fingers and then reinserts three, dragging them in and out.

Spock looks up at him behind dark eyes. “You are very good,” he rumbles as he twists his fingers, hitting Jim’s prostate. Jim groans, feels precome spurt from his tip and bucks, his hand clenching at Spock’s shoulder hard enough to bruise (if he were human). Spock hums and beings a maddeningly slow rhythm with his fingers, reducing Jim to a gasping shuddering mess.

“Okay, okay, okay,” he swats at Spock and tries to push him away. He needs this to happen and now, before he loses it all over Spock’s chest and face and, actually the though is pretty hot but not what he wants tonight so he pushes the thought away for later and starts to lower himself down, one hand on Spock’s hip to steady him and the other grabbing him around the base and guiding him to his entrance. He is pleased that his fingers _just_ close around it. It's heavy in his hand. Spock’s panting under him now, body held still, taut like violin string, body still vibrating with energy under that Vulcan control.

Jim closes his eyes when the head of Spock’s dick butts against his hole.

Spock's hand comes up, closes, tension in the stiffness of his fingers, on the back of Jim’s neck. His breath is shuddering out of him now.

Jim presses down, feels him start to slide in-

"Yes," Spock growls and cants his hips for more.

His dick is opening him up, and it feels like he's being broken open on Spock’s thighs.  Jim trembles with the effort of sliding down slowly, of taking inch after inch, and keeps going.

“Christ,” he swears.

“I am Spock.”

Jim could strangle him. But instead he rests where he is.

Spock says lowly, "So deep. Jim…but not…yet." And then his hands are on Jim’s hips, and pull him the rest of the way down.

“Spock, Spock, Spock,” Jim is scrambling because it’s too much, and Spock’s balls are flush with his ass, and the stretch and burn are so good and too much and Spock’s not even moving but he can feel him brushing along him, _in his head-_

"Shit.  _Shit_."

“Do not release.” Spock commands and rocks into him.

His eyes drop to where his dick disappears into Jim, rapt at the sight of Jim stretch taught around him. He begins to fuck up into him hard and slowly, each thrust opening him wider.

"You are beautiful Jim."

Jim’s mouth gapes stupidly. A small smile forms at the corner of Spock’s mouth, the corner lifting ever so slightly so Jim brings his two fingers to Spock’s cheek and kisses him, and rolls his hips for him.

"Beautiful," he says again, this time it sounds like he's saying it to himself, which he may be because he’s still staring at the way he’d moving in and out of Jim’s hole. He thrusts his hips up like he's trying to get in deeper. "You feel," and his brows furrow, "incredible."

One of his hands slides backwards to where they’re joined and fingers Jim’s rim, brushes against the two of them where they are joined. It’s filthy.

Jim lets go and begins to rock his hips, bouncing up and down. Spock feels like he managing to stuff himself deeper into him and Jim’s jaw clenches to hold back a groan.

Soon

Soon

Soon

Jim hears to slap of flesh on flesh and hears gasps and breathy groans he feels ridiculous for the moment when he realizes those are all probably coming from him, slipping through his lips.

Spock’s fingers dig into his hips and Jim covers them with his own, using them as leverage. Spock’s hips move in rhythms with his own. Fuck, please, please. Jim, Jim, yes, beautiful, Spock is saying except the voice is in his head. His cock brushes against his prostate.

“Oh!” Jim gasps. His belly is taught and quivering under the strain, his thighs feel like they’re shaking. Sweat beads down his spine. Jim grinds down, takes him deeper and feels like there’s no way, there’s no way- Spock's dick is shoving into him, driving the air out of him, _Spock is in his head._

He comes with a long drawn out groan, spilling himself across Spock’s chest, splattering long the jut of his chin.

Spock’s eyes glean and he continues his rocking motions, holding him up with his strength as Jim begins to sag boneless into him. And its sweet friction as Jim comes down with Spock making little breathy sounds until Jim finally feels him seize up and then relax all at once with a groan before falling back onto the cushions.

Jim lays down on his chest, breathing heavily alongside him and feels Spock slip out.

“You’re a god.”

“ I am Spock.”

“You’re a god,” Jim confirms.

\----o----------------o-----------------o-----------

 

Later after Spock had prodded and coerced him into the shower, “you must Jim you are filthy with our-“

Jim flushed from where he lay wrapped under his covers. Anyway the good night kiss had been so sweet, two fingers brushing alongside his. His heart flutters art the memory. He feels like a thirteen year old girl blushing and giggling at the thought of a first crush.

Okay,

But who wouldn’t blush for Spock coming onto them?

The sex had been, was like- and upon reflection Jim realizes that Spock wasn’t exactly in his head, ok he had heard thoughts, but it was more like the other few times when their minds had brushed together, when Spock had been so close to the surface, so close to losing control that he had been able to read Jim, except this time Jim had been able to read back.

And it had felt so intimate, like Spock had just gone deeper and deeper…

Jim muses and chews on his lip. His body is sore and achy in good places, nothing too severe; nothing painful, for all his abandon Spock had still avoided injuring him as Tuvok had.

Jim likes this new development in their relationship. He thinks he doesn’t mind where it is leading, won’t mind being Spock’s lover and thinks if he can have him, have some part of a family with Spock and even estranged Sybok. That he could convince the VSA to give him work with Koss and Vorik, that maybe he could be happy here. Maybe he could build a life on Vulcan with Spock if he can’t even get back to Bones on Earth.

He falls asleep worrying over what he would do if her were given the choice to choose.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ch was a poorly disguised excuse for PWP and also a reward for putting up with this fic for so long. Im kinda stuck trying to wrap everything up so I’m taking long to update now :/ I have vague plans for how I want it to end but uhg trying to actually suss it out is a biotch. Anywho, hope this was acceptable. Thank you for still reading!


	17. Is this it?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Koss shifts, looming next to him. “Your planet is truly beautiful,” he says softly.
> 
> And Jim can’t disagree.

            17         Is this it?

 

Jim wakes slowly, blinking his eyes open at the ceiling. Strange, since when does he sleep sprawled out on his back? His hand hangs half off the bed and half on the bedside table. He notices a flickering light on the padd.

Ah

He had probably whacked it in his sleep when it had gone off. That explains things.

Jim rolls over and snatches at the device, unlocking it and opening the message. It’s from Vorik.

“Greetings Cadet Kirk. I will be brief, I have the coordinates to your planet, Earth. Please come tomorrow for a further debriefing.”

Jim sat frozen in bed, fingers twitching. The message began to replay, he entered the stop keys and placed the padd mechanically next to him on the mattress. Ok so, home. There was a possibility that he could go home, someday, eventually, maybe?

He swallowed.

Just because they found Earth didn’t mean that the VSA would be willing to just pack him up and send him on his way. There were matters of security, intelligence, resources.

This is ludicrous, he reasoned, they would not expend so much time and resources on one alien, not when they could glean so much information from studying him here on Vulcan. Of course, he didn’t believe that the VSA had no interest in Earth, no doubt in several years they would begin plans for diplomatic outreach, much as they had with Andorra and Orion. They would study the solar system, the planets orbit, the weather patterns, and  atmosphere first, all of these from afar-for years. Vulcans did not jump into things. They would not send Jim home, and if they reached a time when they were willing to, well Jim would be old, or middle aged and settled into a life on Vulcan (he hoped), while Bones would have mourned him and there would be no life left on Earth worth returning to. He knew it had to be now, and not later, or he would miss his window.

And it didn’t seem like those two were ever going to collide.

Jim sagged back under his weight into the pillows behind him.

He’s gotta tell Spock, he can’t keep this from him.

On one hand its good, it really is. Jim will be around to help the VSA gather data and eventually to negotiate plans for first contact, he assumes. They will probably use him as a diplomat, some sort of political persuasion or credibility for the Vulcans. Yeah, it could be good, it could work. And Spock would be great, supportive. Even if this thing between them doesn’t work out Jim’s sure that Spock would still want to be around him, could stomach a friendship.

 Jim needs that above all else, because he can drive himself to such great heights, he literally and metaphorically has, but it’s all for an all-consuming need for validation, for approval in seeing eyes. Can he make Pike proud, can he prove to Bones that he really is worth it, can he stick it to Komack, the prick, because Jim is worth it, can he be poised and educated before the Vulcans, can he be someone esteemed, accepted? At the base of it, can Jim gain enough approval externally that he is forced to actually believe it of himself? So no, he can’t do it alone. Because if he did, lost and spinning out of control without an anchor (Bones, Pike, Spock) Jim would destroy himself. All in search of someone who would say, _Yes Jim, you are_. Pike had done that, Bones had done that, Spock did that. Without them he would reach to far, push too hard, leap to high.

Maybe it would happen accidentally, or maybe it would be more like a dare, Jim’s a taunt towards death. _I am Jim Kirk and nothing can take me down_ - _except myself._

It hits him again how lucky he was to have found Spock to begin with, to have picked his name out of that shitty list back in the research centre.

 _Mein Gott,_ he thinks, _and all because his name rhymed with genitalia._

Kirk’s have nothing if not good taste.

He leaps from the bed and pads silently to the bathroom, discarding his nightclothes on the cool tiles. A wave of anxiety washes through him, his intestines cramp. Jim doesn’t need to think about Vorik’s message now.

The tap clicks on and spurts to life, water wets the tiles and steam begins to climb.

He blocks the rogue thought and pushes it down, focusing on a nice hot shower. He’ll not be speaking or thinking about that message, or what significance it could have on his future until after he’s clean and put on his big boy pants and done his hair.

Jim steps into the spray and lathers up.

\---o--------------o------------

 

Jim is waltzing around a corner just as Spock returns from his morning walk.

“Hey there big fella.” Jim smirks and saunters over. He’s dressed in his flight suit, unzipped and carefree, hair tousled in a way that reminds Spock of Jim from the night before.

“Good morning,” Spock says and kisses him full on the mouth. He’d meant it to be chaste but…

Jim groans and kisses back, stepping into his space, a heated palm snaking around to the back of his head and thread into the short hair there. Spock grumbles in response, working his lips against Jim’s. His tongue swipes along his in a way that makes him flush. He feels himself begin to fill out in his trousers, can sense Jim’s lazy arousal and the awareness of that only serves to harden him further.

He feels that he should be worried that he is so sexually…focused.

But Spock finds that he does not particularly care much at the moment and instead backs Jim into the island counter of the kitchen, trapping him there between his arms.

“Good morning to you too.” Jim groans appreciatively. Spock runs his mouth along his jaw, teeth scraping along the stubble growing there. He sucks at the juncture of that and his neck, licks at the skin between his teeth and tastes the salty flavor of him. Uniquely human and Jim.

Jim tries to grind his pelvis along his, but seeks not relief for Spock purposefully holds himself apart.

“Spock please, don’t tease me it’s too early. Be nice.”

Jim’s fingers run along his neck and toy with the point of one of his ears. He leans into the touch.

Spock finds that he likes that Jim wears his flight suit unzipped. He covers one of Jim’s hands, clutched tightly to the counter top, with his own, interlaces their fingers. And his other slips inside the garment. He runs it up Jim’s abdominals, takes care to brush over one of his pectorals and then drags his fingers downwards again, pointedly south. Jim, the responsive lover tat eh is, leans into ever caress, each kiss. Spock’s hand plunges into the pants and cups Jim’s erection. He’s leaking already and weighted in his palm.

Jim gasps and rocks into the loose grip he has on him.

Spock’s hand runs down the shaft, his fingers curl around it and begin to pump him steadily. Jim’s head falls back, his body going lax as he enjoys Spock’s ministrations. A lazy grin spreads over his face, he licks his lips and watches Spock pump him.

Jim’s cock is leaking excessively. He swipes the precome off the head with his thumb and uses it is lubricant to work him faster. They set a rhythm, Jim watching Spock and Spock watching Jim.

Suddenly Jim grins, makes an aborted noise and brings Spock’s other hand to his mouth, bending one of the fingers up and oh-

Those lips wrapped around him is splendid.

Blue eyes glint darkly at him.

How mischievous.

Jim sucks him in, tongue curling around his finger, hot and wet.

Suddenly he cannot ignore the aching hardness in his pants.  He stops his motions and Jim’s and hurriedly opens his fly, tugging the fabric down enough to withdraw himself.

Whatever he was planning on doing next, Jim beats him to it. He takes Spock and himself jointly in hand and brings their hips flush together.

He temporarily loses all coherent thought.

“Ohh,” he groans long and low.

“Yeah,” Jim whispers and rocks them together, slick skin over slick skin.

Spock likes this.

He drops his head to rest on his partners shoulder and allows Jim to take control.

Jim has his hips stuttering before long, his grip hot around them as they slide along in his palm, more so as they rock against each other, adding to the friction.

He doesn’t last long and comes all over Jim’s flight suit.

Jim hold Spock through it, one hand still working on himself until he finally loses it in the same fashion. When he’s done and notices the mess they’ve created his face scrunches up.

“Uhg!” He says and throws his hand up, in what Spock thinks is exasperation. “All over my suit!”

“My clothing is the same,” Spock tries.

Jim brushes him off, “Yeah but this is _my suit_ ,” he stresses.

“Have tea with me,” Spock blurts. To be fair he had given the idea some consideration while on his walk, he just hadn’t factored in such activities beforehand.

“Naturally,” Jim responds automatically.  He snatches a cloth from the counter top and carries it over to the sink, wetting it to clean his garment. “In fact I had something I wanted to talk to you about,” he says, eyes focused on working cloth against cloth.

Spock notes the abnormal inflections in Jim’s speech.

Jim exhales. “I received a message from the VSA this morning,” he trails off, fiddling with the cloth.

Ah. Spock recognizes that Jim is anxious, perhaps the news had been unfortunate? Had there been a setback in their research?

He waits silently for Jim to continue.

“Vorik found the coordinates.”

Spock’s eyes widen infinitesimally. “That is promising?” he lets his inflection trail up, ending in a question. He would wager that such news would have his human bouncing on his heels, not dour and reticent. He is not sure what part of this conversation, this interaction, is beyond his comprehension.

Jim shrugs, “Yeah,” cracks a smile, “it is…” his eyes dart around the room, “but-” he waves his hand franticly.

“This news distresses you? Why?” He places an open palm on Jim’s shoulder in the way that he likes in an attempt to settle him. Jim flinches but allows it.

Spock can feel the anxiety pulsing under his skin.

When Jim spoke next his voice was tense and wavered. “What does it really mean? So what if they found the coordinates, it doesn’t mean they’ll send me back, it doesn’t mean they’ll do anything other than study earth for fifty years and then send out a diplomatic party, maybe. It doesn’t even matter.” He exhaled loudly, shoving a hand through his hair and messing it into disarray.

Spock heard what he was not saying aloud.

_What if I can’t go home?_

 “Jim,” Spock reproached.

“Spock, No!” He barked and swatted at his hand, stepping away.

“I’m sorry, he laughed cynically, I just need some time to myself. This is a lot to process…” he mumbled. His eyes searched Spock’s for something, he didn’t know what, and then left.

Spock had a moment of hysteria, where he thought, _‘Is this what life on earth is like, dramatic exits and emotional outbursts?’_ Jim had so many of them he had a difficult time deducing if they were a personality trait or a cultural byproduct.

Try as he might Spock cannot place himself in his lovers mindset. News indicating the possibility of return to his home world and would delight him. It was illogical to bemoan all negative scenarios that ‘could be.’ Was it not better to at least know it were possible to reach home, if not immediately then at a later date, than to not know at all or worse, to know it to be an absolute impossibility? And in the time between…

And at this Spock admitted to himself a small feeling of insecurity, could not the life he offered Jim satisfy him?

Spock was not naïve, he knew he could not match or make up for Jim’s lost loved ones, his ‘Bones,’ his Admiral Pike but he had aimed to at least keep Jim happy. If Spock could not achieve this as a lover then he would by remaining his friend, by being some part of a _family_. He was _offering_ it to him, he _wanted_ it to be enough, at least for as long as it _had_ to be.

He arrived in his lab eight minutes after Jim’s emotional outburst ready to engross himself in his experiments. He longed to aggressively examine the bacteria from Jim’s favourite cactus, they were luminescent at night, but reminders of Jim made him feel…heavy.

He elected to busy himself with sterilizing the dissection equipment.

“Yo, Spock…” Jim uttered sheepishly from the doorway.

 _Of course,_ “I understand Jim, what you may be feeling. It is all right.” Spock tried not to outwardly sigh. He was in no state to have this conversation, he was not ready to face his…insecurity (he felt like a teenager) before meditating first and perhaps a nice cup of tea. But he supposed he could fathom the distress Jim was experiencing, the uncertainty, the loss that he may face depending on the VSA’s success.

“I…Do you?”

Spock sensed that Jim was sending him a very meaningful look, but did not direct his attention from his tools for more than a sideways glance.

“Because, I’m happy, but I don’t want to get my hopes up. Do you get it?” Jim’s shadow loomed in the doorway and danced in time with his restless motions.

“As I said Jim, I understand. Now please, I must work and then meditate. I will see you later.”

He listened to Jim’s footsteps echo as he retreated down the corridor.

\---o-----------------------------o-------------------------------o

Jim shifts restlessly in his big comfy seat. Perhaps the Vulcans only break out the comfy seats on special occasions. He thinks the discovery of a warp level society in an entirely overlooked solar system is a big deal.

If only he had some Benadryl cream to stop this incessant itching. He squirms, performing a move he like t believe is inconspicuous and drags his nails along his thigh.

 _Ohh yes_ , the soothing relief that follows is fantastic.

Jim glares across the meeting room, he is possibly allergic to the thing in the middle of the desk that looks like a hot pink fuzzy cactus.

It could be pollinating, it could be producing spores. At least he can breathe.

Spock sits stony and unmoving at his side, which is fine he guesses, since he was only invited to come for moral support.

Vorik is fiddling with his padd per usual and Koss is, well Jim doesn’t know what Koss does on his padd all day, he likes to imagine him playing Mario or something but that’s just wishful thinking. He probably plays competitive Sudoku.

Finally when the itching is starting up again Vorik completes his preparations. “There are the coordinates,” he says, sliding the padd over.

He examined the screen, taking in the dots and numbers flashing on the padd. They didn’t really mean much to him.

“Can you validate if they are correct?” Koss asked

“Ehh…” Jim started, “Honestly I’d need a visual of the solar system or more information about the surrounding area to know for sure.”

Vorik hummed and snatched the padd back; he began rapidly typing things into it.

Spock looked to him, head tilted slightly in question.

“ _I’m fine,”_ Jim muttered. So what if his stomach was doing flip flops and it felt like he needed to shit his pants? He was fine. _Everything was fine_. He breathed in an exhaled.

Spock lifted a brow as if to scoff.

“Here,” Vorik said and handed it back to Jim, “this is the closest approximation I can currently provide you with.”

Koss’s long arm reached easily over the table and pointed to the image on the padd, “It is a small star cluster, eight planets, one satellite and a moderately sized yellow sun, this planet you see, third from the sun-“

“That’s it,” Jim breathed, “That’s Earth.” His heart raced. There it was, after _five months_ away, the tiny blue dot on screen was Earth, his home.

_Holy Hell._

“Can we get a closer view? I know that’s it, but I need to see, it has to be closer-“

Spock placed a warm hand on his shoulder, quieting him, grounding him. “I do not believe so Jim,” he said looking to Koss for conformation, “as it stands this is but a rudimentary image with further research as they accumulate data more detailed images will be required.”

Jim nodded.

Yeah, that made sense. It was just that, well, that tiny blue dot was his home. Looking at a blue dot on a screen _wasn’t ever_ going to be enough. He wanted to see the white blobs of clouds and the green of the continents. He wanted to stare at them and approximate where Starfleet HQ was and to gaze longingly and imagine Bones scurrying around angrily down on it.

The thought of Bones scurrying makes him feel a little better. Bones _loved_ to scurry.

“So….” Jim hints, hoping the Vulcans will move onto the more pressing topic of, Can Jim Kirk go home?

Spock leans forward and folds his hands before him on the table. “What is your next step?”

 _‘Nice cock block Spock’_ , he thinks, and leans back in his seat, folding his arms behind his head.

It is Koss who speaks first. “First we will gather more data to confirm the coordinates and to orchestrate the most efficient flight path to Earth from Vulcan.”

“Then,” Vorik pipes up, “we will send a probe to investigate the area, nearby satellites, meteor chains and planetary rotations.”

“Ah,” Jim nods. “How very _efficient_ ,” he sasses.

Spock narrows his eyes at him.

What? He is getting impatient.

And it sounds like his fears will come to pass after all. ‘ _efficient’_ and ‘ _investigate’_ were not words he wanted to hear from Vulcans of the VSA. To be _efficient_ and to _investigate_ took humans a long time, and they weren’t even that thorough. This whole process was going to take months, years maybe.

It felt like a black cloud of angst descended over him, and Earth was further away than ever.

And they still haven’t told him what he really wants to know. He could give two turtle shits about what their next fucking step was. The whole ‘investigate the system’ and ‘efficient’ flight path rigmarole was bullshit. They were avoiding it and Jim wanted to know, and he wanted to know _now._

“So the million dollar question,” Jim bites, eyes flashing, “is will I be able to go home?”

The Vulcans are silent. Vorik looks to his instructor and Koss stares at Jim, expression closed off.

Jim radiates with nervous energy, he feels his chest tighten up, and he is still itchy and his eyes sting-

“Well?” Spock interjects his voice low.

Vorik’s eyes brows have a spasm and he opens his mouth to speak but it cut off by a wave of Koss’s large hand.

“Jim, your ship cannot fly the distance to Earth. It warped to Vulcan purely by an act of-

“-Serendipity.” Vorik blurts.

Koss continues on, nonplussed, “-if you had your vessel were capable you leaving would be of no issue. As it stands, we must build you a capable ship or take you in one of ours.”

“And contact with Vulcan would scare the shit out of everyone on Earth.”

Koss blinks.

Jim frowns.

Spock’s spine straightens. “You do not wish to cause a diplomatic disaster,” he says slowly.

“That is the general consensus, yes.” Koss replies. “At this time, the outcome is vague and decisions on the appropriate action have not been made. Which is why-”

“Further research is necessary.” Jim sighs, looking away.

His heart felt dead.

He stands abruptly and nods to each scientist after slapping Spock on the back. “Well,” he says, now feeling annoyed and despotic, “you know where to reach me.”

\----o-----------------------------------------o----------------------------------------

A week passes, Koss and Vorik gather more data.

A week passes, Koss and Vorik begin to map a flight plan.

A week passes, Vorik gets distracted by a ‘fascinating’ meteor trail that will cross directly through the flight path for a long period of time.

That same week Koss completes mapping the flight plan.

A week passes and Jim is called in to consult on their latest data collection.

He sits in a darkened laboratory with Koss and his eyes widen when a 3D projection of earth in all her blue glory appears on the wall.

“Wow,” Jim sighs.

Koss shifts, looming next to him. “Your planet is truly beautiful,” he says softly.

And Jim can’t disagree. The white clouds trailing over all that blue sea, the vague blurs of continents, of what he thinks is probably Asia is just….awesome.

\----------------------o---------------------------o----------------------

Two months after that first meeting Jim starts getting called in to consult on stupid shit (on some ‘riveting’ discovery or another).

_“Did you know approximately 71% of your planet’s surface is covered by water? That is four times that of the water on Vulcan Cadet Kirk.”_

_“The three primary atomic components are iron, oxygen and silicon…”_

_“Seven tectonic plates-”_

_“60% of population living in urban residencies-”_

_“7/8 th of the surface is uninhabited-”_

_Yes_ , Jim knew all of these things, he lived there, he didn’t see how it was necessary for Koss and Vorik to call him in three times a week to confirm things they already considered fact.

The whole ordeal put Jim into a bad mood. It made him depressed, and frustrated. Each collection of data brought the Vulcans closer to understanding Earth, but it made Jim feel farther away than ever. He felt like they would never stop. He was going to be stuck on Vulcan until he grew jowls.

It was during one such occasion, after Jim had been summoned by joss to view a redundant, though beautiful power point presentation of Earth’s boreal flora, that Jim finally caved.

“Koss, have the VSA made any decisions about sending me home?”

“The decision to refit the Enterprise has been reached, as it would be more readily received by your people than a ship of Vulcan design.”

Jim gaped.

Koss looked away, made the power point move on to the next slide. A Baobab tree appeared.

“However it cannot be manned by one passenger and you will need a copilot.”

Jim’s stomach flip flopped.

“I am sure you understand the implications of that.”

_Oh, he did._

That meant politics, and research, and time.

Pretty soon they weren’t going to buy it if he just happened to drop in on North America with his shiny improved space craft.

What if they shot him down?

What if they quarantined his copilot?

_Tick_

And if too much time passed by and he did get back…

_Tick_

_Tick_

What if he was too old to be recognized?

He’d be pronounced dead months ago he knew, and the longer it took to get back, they less likely he would spend the rest of his years outside of a containment cell.

 

\----------o-------------------------------------o---------------------


	18. And I'll Return by roads Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a loud crash and a flash of gold.
> 
> All the Vulcans in the room turned their attention to the now prone form of Jim Kirk, face down on the laboratory floor.
> 
> Spock stared, eyes wider marginally than normal. On the one hand, Jim’s nasal bone was most assuredly fractured, and he may be concussed, yet again, however… “This is a good sign,” he muttered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus tap-dancing Christ, this chapter feels so long and there is so much porn, the porn took so long to write holy shit and the angst, uhg I’m done with it finally. I can’t handle it ANYMORE. Next chapter: Spock is giddy, Jim is giddy, Lorian is giddy and purple.
> 
> “Odi et amo…” Translated as, “I hate and I love…” from Catullus 85 .

 

 

18 “And I’ll return by roads apart.”

 

When Lorian received a summons to Senva’s office he knew without doubt what it could be about. It was not commonplace for an ambassador to be summoned to the VSA. The matter could only relate in some way to James T. Kirk. A swell of excitement rushed through him at this revelation. He donned his best robe and arranged his bangs symmetrically, he even smoothed his brows, he had an inclination that this meeting would define his career.

He arrived in the antechamber to Senva’s office and seated himself in one of the more comfortable seats, placed directly beside a potted cactus. He took in its pink blooms with a lazy interest.

The fabric of his purple robes glinted under the fluorescent lighting.

A quiet footfall alerted him to someone’s approaching. He glanced towards the archway, watching as the person’s shadow danced on the walls, preceding their entry.

Black clad legs, a blue covered torso marched swiftly through.

“Greetings Spock,” Lorian spoke, raising his hand.

The younger Vulcan’s brow creased obviously and the line of his mouth was drawn thin. Lorian recognized it as a look of frustration. Spock was tense, his respirations more measured and shallow. “Ambassador,” he nodded stiffly and placed himself on the edge of a far seat.

Irritated indeed.

Lorian could only ponder as to why. However it was no concern of his, perhaps another Vulcan would school him on maintaining better control over his emotions but as it was, the matter was Spock’s business, and Lorian did not wish for him to divulge it.

There was a soft click to his left.

His eyes drifted to the office, the door opened.

Lorian rose fluidly from his seat, shooting Spock a parting glance and stepped into the office.

\---o-----------------o-------------

“Official Senva.” Lorian nodded and placed himself before the leader of the VSA.

Senva waved his hand causally at the formality; he bent and placed himself across from the ambassador. “I will be brief, I am sure you have a theory for this summons. You are one of the most accomplished Vulcan’s in your field. You met with Jim Kirk with great success. When we make contact with Earth, I want you to lead the negotiations.”

A thrill ran through him.

\---oo-----------------------o-----------------

Lorian had felt like he was fueled by Andorain ale as he left his meeting, emotions barely in check, his state of mind most readily described as giddy-until Spock ran _through_ him as he exited.

He guffawed (most unseemly) and pivoted in response, arms flying out for purchase on the archway. His purples robes became disarrayed.

“S’chn T’gai Spock!” Senva barked, sounding outraged before he had gotten his foot planted back the floor.

He didn’t have time to watch as Spock strode purposefully, stalked, marched, into Senva’s space, because he was again startled, this time by the door flying at him to close.

Lorian was more graceful with his motions and twirled out of its way and found himself in the antechamber once more.

The door sealed.

“Well,” he muttered, inhaling sharply.

\------------ooooo------------------------

Spock was infuriated. Jim was suffering, wilting before his eyes as the days passed. As first it had seemed like a phase, a period of adjustment to the new reality of his situation, of acceptance, but then it didn’t pass. He withdrew. He not longer wished to play chess. Previous habits returned.

And where was he over the day?

In his room studying Vulcan meticulously on his padd

Exercising diligently, almost obsessively, performing push up after push up after push up-

Spending long hours staring into the desert, back braced forlornly against his cactus, swaddled in his cloak, basked in orange and yellows.

Spock was trying, he coached Jim in meditation, lit calming incense, but if Jim couldn’t master his emotions, would not pull himself from his dark thoughts and despair then there was nothing that he could do.

It brought him to his knees to see his lover so weak.

Eight months? Eight months was long enough to wait for news.

He could not stand to see Jim suffer so, if he needed Bones, if Spock could not keep him happy-

“I urge you to speed the process,” he demanded, feet planted firmly on the floor.

Distantly he recalls charging past the ambassador as he entered.

Senva fumed.

Spock did not care, it fueled his rage.

“Ridiculous!” Senva slapped his desk. “As a scientist, let alone a researcher for the VSA you know that what you ask for is not possible.”

Spock opened his mouth to retaliate-

“And what gives you the right to enter _my_ office uninvited?”

Spock ignored his query and dove right into his argument, “You exaggerate _Senva_ , it is indeed possible, only non traditional. I urge you to forego certain steps that can be taken at a later point.”

“First contact is not just another lab experiment.”

“Obviously,” Spock retorted, “Data gathering on the wild life and terrain for instance, geothermal scans, there are not integral to first contact. Reallocate time and resources to diplomacy and cultural research,” his hand mimicked a gesture he had picked up from Jim, “to the modification of the enterprise-”

“Cadet Kirk's shuttlecraft?”

“Yes.”

“Spock, you are urging the VSA to forego procedures, which are not traditional as you say, but necessary, for the benefit of Cadet Kirk?”

“I am, and they are not necessary.”

He inhaled and exhaled loudly through his nostrils.

“They have been shown to be the most thorough way of gathering all encompassing data on new worlds.”

Spock wanted nothing more than to strike Senva squarely in his face. The man was not listening to a word he was speaking, this was not a matter of procedure, _it was a matter of Jim’s life._ “Agreed, however in this instance you have a primary source readily at hand who is _more_ than cooperative.

Senva paused at this, musing over Spock's point. His brow creased, silver and grey hair dipping toward the midline. "Continue" he gestured left handed. The light shone off of his metallic grey shirt sleeve.

Spock nodded in concession, he inhaled once again and exhaled deeply, feeling some tension lessen in his chest. "Cadet Kirk is more than willing to assist in any way possible with the gathering of data on his home world. He is an invaluable source on the cultures, science and environments. The VSA would be _negligent_ not to make use of him."

The official before him drummed his fingers on his desk.

Spock waited anxiously,

“Is there more?” Senva asked of his silence, one eye brow raised slightly in a quirk.

He suspected there was more, the manner in which S'chn T'gai Spock charged into his office was indicative of high levels of frustration. Surely this matter with Earth was not the sole reason.

At last Spock found his voice. "There is… Cadet Kirk and myself have secondary motives in this endeavor. According to Cadet Kirk, the longer he remains off world, the less likely we will be well received upon first contact.

“Oh? Will his people not be elated to see his return no matter the time span?”

He shook his head. “No. If Kirk is to age visibly, they will find his return suspicious. Furthermore, he is likely presumed dead, and the longer he remains so the more difficult it will be to return him. To surmise his people will be skeptical.”

It seemed the official was finally listening to him, finally hearing his words. Perhaps he could achieve something here today. He needed something to take back to Jim, some small concession.

“Truly?”

“Correct.”

“This information is concerning…”

A pregnant pause followed.

 

"I concede to your point.” Senva looked off at an antique scroll that hung from the adjacent wall.  “Adjustments will be made; your logic is sound, though not prudent. I concede that this is an unusual circumstance, perhaps an uncharacteristic approach should be taken.”

Spock continued to stand there, skeptical of the previous statement. He raised both eyebrows in disbelief, after all their arguing, he had not expected so great a concession.

The official quirked a brow wryly at him. “I must of course take time to consider this information. You will hear from me after deliberation.”

\-----o-------------------------

Spock could hardly wait to inform Jim of his news. Senva’s concession, the outcome of his deliberations in any instance would be Jim’s saving beacon. Jim would have hope; he could again have aspirations, a driving force.

Of course, his lover was not home upon his return. Spock’s lips curled downward at the notion of his human engaging in his favorite pastime in that sea of sand. When he returned he would tell him. Knowing that he had accomplished something worthwhile for Jim in the first time in weeks he was finally able to grasp some piece of mind.

He ran a finger over the veins of his wrist.

When had he become so invested in Jim’s happiness?

He hadn’t noticed; it had been that natural to him.

\---o---

Jim pulls anxiously at the cloth of his pant leg. His skin is still pink from the heat of his shower and his hair has hardly dried even after thoroughly toweling it. It stands at odd angles, a mixture of dark spikey wet and gold fluffy dry. 

Spock had waited for him to return, and he had been patient through him shaking off the sand encrusted into his clothes and scalp….over the kitchen floor. He had waited while he went for his shower; part of the waiting may have been due to anxiety over Jim’s reaction.

“Jim,” he’d pleaded, after loitering anxiously outside his bedroom, and then inside it…and had placed both hands flat on his shoulders and tried to lead him out. Jim had on pants, he was dressed in his rest attire, he was clean, he was presumably done with his depressive habits for the day, _it was time._

Spock needed to tell him the news _hours ago_.

Jim shot him a quizzical look and allowed himself to be lead from his chambers, muttering a half hearted, “all right,” and shrugging his shoulders offhandedly.

He had led him to his bedroom, intent on showing him his padd, because he had insisted on getting Senva’s concession in writing, and any proof that he could show Jim was the worth of _water on Vulcan._

“Jim I have news,” he had started, full blown Earthling grin splitting his face. And Jim had just stood there and listened. He had read the message with an upsetting lack of response and simply handed it back to him.

_Why was he just standing there?_

Spock cocked his head. “I expected this development would have enraptured you?” He held out his open palm.

Jim looked away and shrugged.

Spock was at a loss. He felt his peace of mind draining from him rapidly, the spark he had seen in Jim, would it ever return? He…was upset, or was that Jim bleeding through?

_Both of them?_

But why?

Why was Jim still like this? Still devoid of himself, distant from Spock and… _illogically pessimistic._

“This is a victory for you Jim,” he said with complete authority.  Because it was, he’d won it for him, demanded it of Senva, _his superior_ , and handed it to Jim on a metaphorical platter and _still nothing?_

His eyes narrowed.

Jim shrugged; a noncommittal gesture.

He was at a loss, so he said as much.

Jim frowned. “I just don’t see the point in getting emotional over anything. The VSA may talk big, but how do I know that anything will actually happen?” he said with a crack in his voice. His bottom lip quivered.

His eyes were watering, Spock could see it from where he stood.

“Jim, you must react to something.” The muscles in his back tensed.

“You _say_ it but-”

“I do say it!” Spock shouted.

Jim startled.

“Vulcan’s do not lie.” And suddenly Spock was in his space, only inches from him. “ _you must…”_

Jim squirmed before him. “ _no.”_

Spock grit his teeth and shoved Jim backward, trapping him against the wall.

“What was that?” He breathed into Jim’s ear, “No?” He felt his fingertips squeezing into the flesh of his bicep. “Did I hear you denying me?” He licked a stripe up Jim’s neck and bit angrily at the sensitive skin there. He felt his control slipping; Jim’s emotions were so close to the surface, his own control was held barley in check. All of the frustration and desperation that had been building over the weeks threatened to spill out. He was being…rougher than usual with Jim, he knew, but he liked it, _Jim liked it._

Spock could sense the thrill run down Jim’s spine at the touch of his teeth.

He ground his pelvis into Jim’s.

“Spock,” Jim grunted, “s-stop being an ass.”

Spock growled, then hooked one arm under Jim’s thigh and around his waist with the other and _threw_ him .

Jim landed on the bed, bounding once off the mattress with an, “oof!” and a flair of limbs. “Shit Spock!”

Said Vulcan was on him in an instant, manhandling him, bracketing both legs with his own. Jim slapped halfheartedly at his shoulder and Spock snatched the offending limbs away, pinning them above his head.

Jim panted, his chest rising and falling. His cheeks were coloured a beautiful hue of red and yet he _would not_ bring himself to look at Spock.

“Listen to me James,” he spoke, voice low and devoid of emotion. He placed one heavy hand atop Jim’s pectoral, effectively ceasing his movements, “you will not be _this_ creature with _me_ ,” he hissed,” forehead touching Jim’s.

 _“I can’t-“_ Jim started, voice broken.

Spock kissed him full on the mouth.  He released the vice he had on Jim’s wrist and brought both hands to cup his face. He deepened the kiss in the way Jim liked and reveled in his responsive soft lips opening under his.

_At last, at last._

Jim whined, a pathetic broken sound that made Spock’s heart ache. He could feel him tremble beneath him.  Jim broke the kiss, turning his head away, still not meeting his gaze. “when I’m like this…”

Spock nuzzled his neck, inhaling desperately. “You need do nothing, just be my Jim Kirk, _my Ashayam_.”

Jim uncurled, his body going lax. His fingers tentatively touched at his bicep.

Spock could not-would not keep himself from touching him everywhere, down Jim’s throat, his sides, kissing at his wrists, and he could feel _it_ \- _overwhelming need_ , flowing from Jim, leaking through the contact. His teeth grazed over his chest, just above a nipple.

Jim arched into the touch, into _every_ touch. 

Well that was…

Arousal clouded his mind. He coaxed Jim over, pawing at his hips and yanked his pants down as far as the position would allow.

And then, Spock does what he has been longing to do _for months_ and takes both cheeks in his hands and parts them open, pressing his face to Jim’s opening and _licks in._

Like the perfect being he is, Jim drops back to his elbows, neck arched, makes a strangled sound.

As his knees widen, Spock has the strongest urge to forego his actions and just _push himself in._

Not yet.

 “A-ahh!”

It seems like he is trying to speak, trying to twist around, to bring his face off of the mattress and to protest (of course) but the only noises he seems able to produce are shocked, stuttering gasps and cut-off moans and-

 Spock _likes_ it that way.

The rush he experiences from the noises Jim makes alone will probably be enough for him, but he does not plan on stopping until Jim is absolutely wrecked beneath him. They are the first positive reactions he’d had from him in weeks.

He likes the sight of Jim presenting-yes- underneath him, and he groans because he looks like every dark fantasy he has ever tried to repress-

“Do not stop,” Spock commands and runs his teeth over the sensitive skin.

Jim bucks.

Arousal heady and powerful bleeds through.

_Ohshitohshitohshit-_

Spock hears vulgar wet sounds of his ministrations and continues to lick and suck at Jim’s hole, getting him wet and loose and open-

Jim cries, “please, Please, Please!”

He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat as Jim’s entire body jerks gracelessly beneath him. He pushes in another finger, and Jim’s hands curl around one of the cushions, gripping so tightly that his knuckles are turning white. He grips him tighter, opens him wider, holds him steady and crooks them just so and licks around them.

“ngh!”

He can smell his arousal dripping onto the clean sheets.

It's so easy, amazingly easy, the way his body opens up around him, takes him in.

And, well that’s about all Spock can take. He stops rimming him abruptly and kneels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Jim is still panting and squirming beneath him and he secures him with a hand on his back, pushing him, keeping him there, knees bent, face down, ass up, and unfastens his trousers, pulling out his (achingly) hard cock.

He hisses between his teeth at the sight of himself, full and flushed dark green against Jim’s pink fluttering hole, wet and loose and ready for him.

He pushes-sliding in and in and in- Jim was so _wonderfully_ hot-until _finally_ he bottomed out with a grateful groan.

“Fuck me,” Jim breathes.

Spock grunts, grabbing Jim by the hair on the back of his head and drives into him unceremoniously. “How does that feel Jim?”

Jim makes a garbled noise that sounds like a plea.

He pulls out and rocks back in.

Jim gasps, he does it again, harder. The feeling is incredible and Jim takes it _so well_ , “you are so good Jim,”

“n-no--”

He fucks in again, slowly, relishing in the feeling of Jim surrounding him, all _tight wet heat_. All he wants is to follow his baser instincts, to mark, claim, pin Jim and fuck into him until he comes, fill him up, cherish him, keep him close.

“You are,” he says roughly, and stuffs himself in. Jim rocks foreword, sliding up the bed. Spock holds him more firmly and does it again, enjoys the sound of their bodies colliding.

 

“Harder,” Jim cries out.

 

Spock complies.

\---o---

It’s not as if he isn’t thrilled, he’s fucking thrilled, slay an ox for Zeus and leave the best parts too, he’s over the goddam moon- _pee his pants thrilled_ -but he can’t let Spock know that, because he is immensely happy, how freaking sweet can his alien be, championing his dream and bringing it proudly to him-it made him weak in the knees,

But now-

But now… is the worst thing, the most painful thing he was afraid of. He’ll have to choose, to actually pick one over the other, Spock or Bones. And Jim, who has always his whole life been everyone’s last choice, the delinquent, the pretty boy too smart for his own good, the person more trouble than he was worth- how he ended up with two people who actually loved him as much as he did back he has no idea and it rends him, he feels divided in two to have to decide.

It would have been easier if the outcome had been forced upon him. He wouldn’t have to live with the guilt of deeming one less necessary, less important, than the other. He doesn’t know or care if it makes him a weak person or not, he doesn’t want to do it.

“Odi et amo…”

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes to force back the tears threatening to spill.

 _Just make the decision and repress it,_ spend months to years agonizing over it, between bottles of alcohol and one risky decision or some other until he feels actually strong enough, _like he’s paid enough,_ to deal with it.

“Okay, okay.” If it has to be done then he can’t avoid it.

But shoving Spock away from him isn’t going to help in the long run, no matter his decision.

He just can’t have him close until he does.

It feels like a betrayal.

 

 

\----o-----------------o

If, to quote Jim, “Mind blowing sex,” and his hopes literally being handed to him are not enough to shock Jim out of his depression, then Spock does not know what will.

 

The Andorian ale slipping past his lips and burning down his throat does, help _him,_ at least.

 

 

\----o---

So Spock may have had to coax Jim to attend the latest meeting at the VSA, an update on the ‘mission status’ as Jim liked to put it, but at least he was attending.

Jim huffed in annoyance, striding unenthusiastically into the laboratory ahead of Spock.

Light flashed off of Koss’s bald head and beamed Spock directly in the eye. He winced.

“Greetings,” the engineer’s bass voice called out.

Spock nodded vaguely and blinked his eye.

Jim propped his hands on his hips and craned his neck, expecting the space around him. “So what’ve you got for us Koss?”

Spock folded his arms behind his back.

“We’ve started issuing a series of communications, radio waves tailored to your earth’s satellites. Your planet should begin to pick upon them in thirteen days’ time. A probe that was sent twenty days ago has reached your Earth and began extensive mapping or coordinates, namely of your home region.”

Jim swallowed. “Wow, that’s…allot…”

“Indeed, and now with official Senva’s support ongoing progress will be more expedient.”

“Uh huh.”

“the refitting has finished on your ship, all that remains is to school you in its functions and newer designs.”

“and the selection of your copilot!” Vorik chimed in.

Spock had not even seem him from where he stood, in fact he still could not place him with his eyes. His voice echoed from the direction of a large array of mechanical parts off to the right.

“Thank you Vorik,” Koss said in a tone that suggested the opposite, shooting a less than approving look towards said pile of junk.

Ah. So he was correct then.

“So the ship is done, when can we begin training me?”

“As soon as you select your copilot. That is one of the final steps towards first contact Jim Kirk.”

Jim was silent.

“Jim?”

Spock’s eyebrow rose.

“Can you clarify?” Jim said in a strange tone. His arms hung loose by his sides.

“The launch will be ready in a number of weeks; the exact time will depend on transmissions and how quickly the remaining data can be assembled. None of this will be possible if you first are not proficient in its workings.”

There was a loud crash and a flash of gold.

All the Vulcans in the room turned their attention to the now prone form of Jim Kirk, face down on the laboratory floor.

“Should we inform a medic?” Vorik asked, voice high in alarm.

Spock stared, eyes wider marginally than normal. On the one hand, Jim’s nasal bone was most assuredly fractured, and he may be concussed, yet again, _however_ … “This is a good sign,” he muttered.

The excellent ears of Koss and Vorik picked up his statement. “Good?” they repeated, sounding astounded.

Spock whipped out his comm and opened it with a clack! He put a call through to T’Mir, ignoring the engineer’s inquiries for the time being. “T’Mir,” he said, at the sound of her birdlike voice, “Jim has fainted again, he landed face down on the laboratory floor.”

“Oh!” T’Mir exclaimed, “This is excellent news-“

Koss and Vorik’s brows reached for the sky

Spock felt for Jim’s carotid pulse.

 “-He displayed this phenomenon frequently when in prime health! I suspect a retreat of his depression.”

78 beats per minute, acceptable. “Agreed.” He turned Jim over and internally grimaced at the sight of his red blood flowing freely from the predictable wound on his nose. “hmm,” he thumbed a small laceration above his left brow.

“I shall prepare my instruments!” T’Mir chirped, neglecting to contain her excitement.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Jim regained consciousness and began asking incessantly, “It is real? Was it true Spock, Weeks? _Weeks_?” sounding and looking happier than he had in weeks, Spock let slip a small smile- _Even though_ Jim had promptly puked on his shoes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps I was born kneeling,   
> born expecting the kiss of mercy,   
> born with a passion for quickness   
> and yet, I learned early about the stockade   
> By two or three I learned not to kneel,   
> not to expect, 
> 
> Do I not feel the hunger so acutely   
> that I would rather die than look   
> into its face?   
> I kneel once more,   
> in case mercy should come   
> in the nick of time.
> 
> -Anne Sexton


	19. Half Mast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for lift off, metallic vulcan robes, and random pwp.

 

 

19 Half Mast

 

 

Jim’s dick was standing at half mast (give him some time) which was wildly exciting and wildly inappropriate because on the one hand, the brand spanking new Enterprise looked _dammed good_ and on the other, he was in the middle of the VSA surrounded by stuffy and mildly confused Vulcan Engineers.

He wolf whistled. “Dayam, my baby looks good!”

 _So shiny, so sleek_ , he couldn’t wait to run his hands all over the warp core, well…not _directly_ over the warp core.

“Is it customary to christen your vehicles with pet names?” Chimed in Vorik.

Jim adjusted himself in his flightsuit and swaggered over to where he was working and clapped him harder than necessary on the back.

“Cadet Kirk!” Vorik exclaimed. He really hated it when Jim did that. Which was _why_ Jim did it.

He chose to ignore the vulcan’s question, because that explanation would take too long. “So I had my preliminary flight training today,” Jim commented, idly fisting his hands into his pockets.

“Yes, I was there, you seem to have forgotten.” His glasses flashed.

“Oh. Were you?”  Jim inwardly grinned, he loved getting the Vulcan’s worked up.

Vorik seemed to have caught on. He shot Jim a look, eyebrow raised under his renegade bangs, a sharp look in his eye that said, ‘I am tired of your bullshit.’

Jim chewed on his lip.

“Have you yet to decide up on a copilot?”

Ah, that.

The source of all Jim’s internal anguish.

“Yeah…” he drawled, staring off. So… so he would be going home. There was a talk he needed to have with Spock, A.S.A.P. He hadn’t even told him about the flight training. It made his chest feel tight. But honestly, he felt like Spock must already know, he probably knew before Jim did.

There was a time when Jim would have chosen to stay, when he thought returning would be so far off in the future, when Bones was too old, when things would be too hard to pick up again with a simple, “Hey! You’ll never believe what happened!” He would have chosen Spock _then_ , but not now. Not when it hadn’t even been a year, and he could be home at the end of it. That was a shorter time span than most military deployments for Cochrine’s sake.

“Cadet Kirk?”

“Huh?” Jim rolled his big blue eyes over to Vorik.

The Vulcan adjusted his spectacles.

“I haven’t,” he inhaled, “but I’ve got some time to decide.”

\-----------------o------

 

 

Lorian rushed after Cadet Kirk as he strode quickly down the hall. The Cadet had an unusually purposeful stride, taking long powerful steps, as if he could not reach his destination sooner. “Cadet Kirk! Cadet Kirk!” He called, purple robes fluttering.

Jim slowed his stride but did not stop, he looked quickly over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow. “Ambassador?”

“Cadet Kirk,” he repeated, at least catching up with the human.

“What can I do for you?”

“Not for me Jim Kirk, for the Science Academy. I have been sent from my meeting with Senva to inquire if you have made a decision about your flight arrangements.”

Jim’s face convulsed strangely, “My flight arrang- oh! The copilot?”

The turned a corner brusquely and headed for a lift. Ah. The Cadet must be intent on returning to his home for the day.

Jim pressed the button for the ground floor and crossed his arms, widening his stance and rocking on his heels. It made him appear larger than he was.

Lorian eyed him momentarily, attempting to decipher his body language. “Jim Kirk, no further progress can be made until you have chosen your copilot. I must prepare them for contact on Earth.”

“I got it.”  The lift arrived and he strode in, Lorian following after.

“If you cannot select someone, a pilot can be selected for you.”

Jim’s head swiveled over faster than Lorian could blink, “No!” “No, I mean, I can figure it out myself. I just don’t want to make a hasty decision. Whoever I choose has to come with me, we’ll be thrown together a lot once on Earth and it’s just, I realize things are waiting on my decision but I don’t want to rush it and-“ Jim stops mid sentence, blue eyes widening.

Lorian tilts his head.

“Cadet Kirk?”

Jim opens and shuts his mouth. “U-um, Lorian?” His hands flex at his sides. “Are there any stipulations on who I can select as copilot?”

Lorian pauses for a moment to consider his question. “No, I do not believe so.  You will be performing the more advanced maneuvers during the flight, the copilot is necessary for ancillary support.

“So?” Jim barks, body leaned toward him, eager for a clarification.

“There are no stipulations, only that the Vulcan you select agrees.”

Jim’s eyes widen even further and he inhales deeply, holding in his air for some time.

 

“Can  _you_  fly a ship?”

 

“I possess a small private shuttlecraft.”

 

“Huh.”

 

Lorian raises an eyebrow.

 

\----------------------------------------------------o-------------------------

 

 

The Sun was setting and the sky was awash in brilliant red and orange and Jim was idly tossing grapes out into the yard. Spock sat diagonally from him, immersed in some science or another, gaze glued to the text on his padd. Every three minutes his hand would lift his tea mug to his lips and he would sip from it.

Jim wasn’t sure he even realized it.

Was his tea even a proper temperature anymore?

“So have you been to see my new ship?”

Spock’s eyebrows quirked, as if they were confused by the sudden interruption. “No, not of late.”

“Well you should because it’s beautiful.”

Spock hummed.

Jim tossed another grape. He sighed, his leg fidgeted restlessly. “Hey do you want to-Spock can you fly a ship?” Jim blurted.

Was that a common skill set among Vulcans? Like calculus and molecular biology? Pimp Caesar could fly one, Did they learn that in Vulcan gym class in the eighth grade?

Spock looked up from his padd and set down his tea. “I possess rudimentary flight skills. I could pilot a ship under optimal conditions. Why?”

Jim chewed his lip, “Well... You know, I started flight training on the new Enterprise,” he mumbled, staring intently at his fingers.

Spock was silent for a moment. “That is good news Jim. The timeline is progressing faster than you had hoped.”

Jim felt the tightness in his chest loosen. “Yeah but Spock, you know that means _I’m leaving_?” And goddammit Spock better get what he meant. “Ok, Spock, stop looking at your padd-“

Spock’s eyes met his and held Jim riveted on the spot. Ok, yeah, _that look_ , that look meant he knew _exactly_ what Jim was saying. “Spock-“ he started, voice softer than he had intended, “if it wasn’t this fast I would have stayed,” he felt his eyes stinging and Spock just looked so fucking earnest and calm and he would miss those dark eyes and his heart shaped mouth, “ _I would have stayed_ ,” he said again, trying to say everything he couldn’t say in just that one stupid sentence.

Spock got it anyway, despite his ineloquence. “Jim, you do not belong here. I never expected you to stay.”

And that just broke the earth beneath him, made him feel like shattered glass.

“Not when you have a family to go home to. I knew you would go Jim,” he said, reaching for his hand, “but if you could not have gone,” Spock breathed, pulling Jim foreword with a hand on the back on his neck, bringing them so close that their lips grazed when he spoke next, “ _I would not have minded.”_

Jim groaned when Spock kissed him. _‘I would not have minded,’_ could only sound romantic coming from a Vulcan, could only sound like a _confession_ coming from Spock.

He rushed forward, giving it all he had, inhaled sharply and smashed their lips together, holding onto his Vulcan for dear life, because he wasn’t going to have this for much longer.

“Hey,” Jim said, breaking off the kiss. He ran his fingers over Spock’s temple, softly ducking into his hairline.

Spock turned into the caress.

“Hey…Let me in.”

Spock’s hand stilled Jim’s ministrations. He looked to Jim with a question on his face.

“Yeah, you know,” Jim took one of Spock’s hands and brought it to touch upon his temple, wiggling his fingers suggestively. Shit, he was so nervous about this but _it felt right_. He licked his lips.

Spock’s eyes followed the movement. “Jim…are you sure?” his voice was low, and Jim could feel the vibrations through his chest.

 

“Yeah, I am. I want you to.”

Spock’s eyes went dark with something, pupils blown, eyes lidded. _“My mind to your mind,”_ Jim shivered, “ _My thoughts to your thoughts-”_

His lips were moving and-

All at once it felt like something rushing white and fast up his spine, like his body was dissipating, like suddenly there was all this white noise and silence and Spock-so much Spock coming at him, in front of him, _and_ \- Distantly he felt his back arch and his hands jerk, twisting roughly into the fabric of Spock’s jersey.

 _“Jim,”_ Spock’s voice said, _inside his head_. And he wasn’t really seeing anything just memories _of his pet Sehlat and of Vulcan glowing orange, his mother, silent and serene, beautiful in their rock garden in Raal when he was just a child_ \- “ _Ashayam_.”

_Those were Spock’s memories._

_“Nashaut,”_ Jim ~~said~~ thought, apparently, _in Vulcan_.

And all at once the world cleared up and he could see Spock’s face and the way his eyelids crinkled up with delight; and everything was orange and red- _“Taluhk nash-veh k'dular.”_

 _“Taluhk nash-veh k'dular,”_ Jim repeated, nodding, _of course you do, I do, I do, I do_ , and kissed Spock again, pushing him back into the sand.

 

 

\---------------------o-------------------

 

 

It’s later, at night, in the dark of his room while Jim lies alone that he thinks about what Spock had said. His fingers ghost over the sheets, wondering where his companion has gone, off to the lab most likely, and wistful he flings his arm over his face and sighs heavily into the dark.

_“I knew you would go Jim.”_

Did he know? It worried Jim, how sometimes Spock seemed to understand him better than he did himself.

But…to be honest, was there ever really a legitimate chance of him choosing to stay? Jim couldn’t bring himself to stay on Vulcan; not with Bones waiting depressively at the bottom of a bottle for him at home. Not with Bones grieving depressively _alone_ in his flat, run haggard after thirty-two hour shifts and enough bourbon to _embalm_ him.

He rolls out of bed and makes a note to smuggle some Andorian tuber root into his duffel bag before the launch. The list of things isn’t long, couldn’t be considering the small number of possessions he’s amassed, the padd, the superfluous number of new underwear, he contemplates taking the chess set but… he just can’t.

It’s hard to accept that in a fortnight he could be sauntering down some random city street on Earth. No more sand, no more Vulcan eyebrows, no more weird orange light, no more sand, no more wearing a fucking cape and goggles to go outside, _no more sand._

Jim sighs again and rolls over onto the cold side of the sheets.

 

\----------o----------------------

 

 

 

 

 

“So here she is, in all her glory,” said Jim proudly, gesturing towards the ship. She really was a piece of work, improved warp capable (no glitches) engine with _clean_ emissions, more energy efficient, better constructed hull, temperature flexible metallic alloy included. The engineers back at the base were going to seize when they saw her. Scotty would probably faint.

“A vast improvement from when I first saw her,” Spock spoke wryly.

Jim huffed. As if the crumpled wreck he’d _crawled out of_ could even be compared!

“You know the first model did get me here _intact_ , you should give it a little more credit.”

Spock hummed.

Jim rolled his eyes.

“Have you chosen your copilot Jim?”

Jim’s stomach flip flopped unpleasantly. “Uh… Yeah, I think so, I’ve got a guy in mind.” His fingers trailed along the railing as he led Spock up into the ship, ready to give him a proper tour.

The Vulcan rose an eyebrow in question.

“I’m not telling yet, I still haven’t even asked.” He shrugged. Asking was going to be…interesting. The VSA hadn’t been specific with who he could request, just to request _someone_ ….so….he could ask whoever he wanted right? _If they were willing._

Jim twirled around once they were inside the ship, arms outstretched. “So this is it, see?”

Spock folded his hands behind his back. “Indeed.” He glances around then surreptitiously, which is odd, because Spock doesn’t do surreptitious, he’s Vulcan.

“What-“ Jim tries, and then Spock is striding over to the console and pushing some buttons, and “hey that’s the-“

And yup, there goes the door, sealed tight. Well then…

He rocks on his heels, “And the point of that was?”

“We should christen your ship,” he says darkly, striding foreword in the dim light. His voice sounds hushed and does the bastard even know what he just suggested?

“Is than an innuendo?” Jim blurts.

Spock hums and walks Jim back into the console.

“Huh.”

Eloquent per usual. And when his voice comes next it’s quiet and sounds strange to his ears, passive and soft, “What do you want me to do?”

Stars above, was he was _easy_.

Jim gets right against Spock’s chest, warm and soft. “ _Anything_ ,” Spock mutters, eyes locked somewhere on Jim’s neck.

“Yeah? Anything huh?” Jim presses. He smiles, a wry quirk of his pink mouth. The moment stretches until it’s nearly unbearable, and Jim just thinks, fuck it, because it’s not like he’s going to get another perfectly good chance to do _whatever_ he wants with Spock in his cockpit anytime soon.

_Cock-pit._

 “Open these up,” Jim finally says, gesturing to his pants. Spock sends him a look, glancing between Jim’s face and his fly then unfastens the button and unzips him. Spock kind of shifts unsure of what Jim’ wants from him next. “Yeah, that’s ok except-” Jim places a hand on his shoulder and presses, “ _on your knees.”_

Spock drops to his knees and starts to trail his knuckles up his thighs.

Jim starts to sweat. Is it hot in here or is it just him? Actually _it’s Vulcan_ , _what the fuck is he thinking about-_

Spock leans forward and nuzzles along the inside of his groin, warm lips kissing along the outline of his bulge, effectively stopping his rambling thoughts.

“Shit!” He curses, his other hand flies to Spock’s shoulder. His hisses through his teeth then cards his fingers through the Vulcan’s neatly arranged bangs. “G-get it out,” he groans.

Spock pulls back and guides him through the slit in his black boxer briefs, dick at half mast already, and it doesn’t take much more coaxing for Spock to get him all the way up.

“Yess” he hisses as Spock’s tongue licks along the shaft and then warm over the head of his dick. “There you go,” he breathes, and Spock goes to town, takes him in and starts bobbing.

Fuck. The slurping noises make it even hotter. He threads into Spock’s bangs, grips him tight and lets his hips rock in time with Spock’s motions.

He wonders how rough Spock can take it.

Jim makes a thump of a noise like he’s been kicked.

When Spock pulls away his lips are shiny, swollen, gorgeous, and his tongue darts out with a pink point to lick at the sloppy drips of come.  And _ugh_ , if that wasn’t the hottest thing Jim Kirk had _ever_ seen, and _yeah_ , he’s got a lot of material to compare it to.

The Vulcan leans forward just enough to take the head his cock into his mouth, licking at the tip and applying _just_ the right amount of suction to the underside, and ok, _that’s fantastic_ , really.

His hips stutter. He fists Spock’s hair to hold him in place and starts thrusting in and out of his mouth, between those warm lips. Spock’s hands adjust on his hips, and fuck, he can feel his throat widening up to take him in.

A tingle of electricity runs along his thigh where Spock runs his fingers.

“Fuck, Spock, I'm--” No, Jim pushes Spock off, slowly, not too much friction too fast. And Spock just kneels there, big brown eyes blown looking at him in confusion. His hair is adorably disheveled and his lips are wet and shiny and swollen and, fuck him there’s precum smeared on his chin.

Jim fists himself, panting, and gets a hand on Spock’s head again. “I want to come on you.”

Spock grips Jim’s thigh, tighter than necessary and instantly he is flooded with _wantlustyesgood_ and Jim _knew_ his Vulcan was repressed from the start.

“Yeah, all right, good boy-” he breathes, and starts pumping himself, hand sliding along with ease from how Spock had slicked him up. And his other hand is kind of sliding down Spock’s temple and Spock just leans into the touch.

Jim just fucking goes with it when he feels their minds start to collide _, because he’s so close,_ and he starts jacking faster-

_He feels it coming on, the meld or his orgasm-both-_

Jim lets out a raspy moan when Spock’s mind pushes against his, the nearest thing to a meld, and holy shit, is that Spock? He feels so close to the edge, tension coiled low in his belly and it's only a few more strokes and he’s coming. “Uh!” laying down stripe after warm wet stripe of come on Spock’s face.

“f-fuck.”

Spock is content on the other side of the meld when should feel disgusted, he’s a Vulcan, but he doesn’t, _Jim can feel it, he’s-he fucking likes it._

Another spurt hits his lips and Spock opens his mouth to lick it. The final spurt hits Spock's tongue and he comes in his pants, groaning and squeezing hard enough at Jim’s thighs that there will be finger bruises there later.

 

_Maybe he just likes anything involving Jim._

 

For a while there is just tingling white noise and just….wow

 

 

“Awesome.”

\-----------o-------

 

 

It’s two weeks later and bordering on nine months  when everything is finally ready for lift off, so to speak. Jim wakes up every day with butterflies in his stomach and he thinks even Spock seems giddy.

He keeps asking if Jim is prepared and, does he need this item for the trip? Will he require T’Mir’s sunlotion on Earth? Could he fit all of his underwear, his cape, and his goggles in his pack?

Actually that could just be Spock feeling anxious.

But Lorian seems giddy. At every meeting he and Jim attend he notes the ambassador’s outfit, because (illogically Jim thinks) his robes keep getting _more_ metallic and bilious. And if his hair became more symmetrical and stiff and shiny he would be wearing _a bowl_ on his head.

Well Jim is giddy too, but at least he’s not acting like a mother hen or a pimp.

“So here’s the plan,” he says, addressing the room full of aliens, stance spread wide and authoritative.

They’re at the VSA, in one of the high tech presentation rooms. A massive hollow of Earth is rotating behind him and if he stepped backwards his head would disappear somewhere into the Atlantic ocean.

Vorik adjusts his glasses.

“Koss and Vorik have been periodically sending Earth messages, signals to their satellites for some weeks now.  With some luck they’ll have picked up on some of them so that our arrival on Earth won’t be too much of a surprise. The Enterprise will aim for a landing on the shoreline by the UNAD,” he waves a hand through California, “We will land, disembark and wait for their arrival.”

He cocks his hip, watching the Vulcan’s nod their heads sagely. “I want to stress that I will lead the communications. My copilot will be fitted with a universal translator, but _I. Will. Lead.”_

More nodding.

“If anything goes wrong… For any failings and incidents, I will take full responsibility.”

Spock shifts uncharacteristically in his seat, next to Koss and Vorik. Jim meets his gaze and holds it.

Spock’s eyebrows do a thing, this little, “ _don’t be such a martyr Jim,”_ convulsion.

Jim’s eyes narrow in a way that says _“shut up Spock, stop being such a smart ass.”_

 

The rest of the meeting goes smoothly.

 

\----o----

 

 

On the morning of the launch Jim wakes up and rolls himself out of bed, literally rolls himself off the mattress and onto the floor with an “oomf!” because, _unlike last time_ , he actually slept the night before and waking up from a really good sleep (surprisingly good) is _not_ Jim’s forte.

After stumbling to his knees or feet, whatever, he cracks his back and shuffles over to his wardrobe. The latch slides open with a quiet click and there it is, hanging silently in all its patched glory: _his flight suit._

One deft hand grips his blue flight suit as he slides into the pant legs. The other zips the outer seam snugly shut. The abdominal zipper comes next; muscular arms flexing as they work their way through sleeves.   All purposeful motion stops while the body assesses its fit, blue eyes note the integrity of the patched seams.

The fabric is so worn and faded now, Jim fingers it, smiling fondly.

 He arches his neck left, and then right, which is followed by a loud  _crack_!

He decides the zipper is pulled up too high; he pulls it down, leaving it level with his hips, it’s breezier that way. It’ll be nicer than being stuffed up inside of it, dripping with ball sweat, as the sun rises on Vulcan.

He runs a hand through his golden locks and shakes his shoulders vigorously, up and down, backwards and forewords. This time, it’s not to ease some tension, this time it’s to try to wake himself up.

This time he’s completely calm and unfazed by what’s about to happen, by the journey he’s about to undertake. He’s like still water.

Standard poly compound, temperature resistant, shock absorbing VSA issued boots complete the uniform.

He strides into the bathroom to wash his face and clean his teeth, hell he even flosses because today is just that special. Once he’s done he glances at himself in the looking glass above the sink.

 

His dog tags, where are they?

 

Jim panics for a minute, unable to remember where he placed them last, in his bedside table, on the counter, in one of his pockets?

 

He finds them there, tucked into his left side, metal warm from their proximity to his leg. Ok, he exhales and hangs them around his neck.

 

Now, he thinks, he looks the part.

Sharp eyes assess his reflection in the mirror: the faded blue of the flight suit, its yellow pinstripes and plethora of patches; his dog tags glean under the overhead light…‘ _Pilot, First Class Cosmonaut’_

The glean off his dog tags are bright in his eyes, and he almost doesn’t believe it will happen, that he’ll see Bones again, that in so many hours he will be back on Earth, surrounded by bright blue and green. What if something goes wrong? But _nothing will_ go wrong, “You can do this,” he whispers to his reflection, hands gripped onto the white edge of the sink, before the tension rising in his gut can give way to nausea.

 

Nothing will go wrong, and everything will be all right.

\-----o------

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Nashaut,” (hello, they way it is spoke between lovers or very close friends)  
> “Taluhk nash-veh k'dular.” (I cherish thee)
> 
>  
> 
> The next chapter is the last! The LAUNCH, the COPILOT, EARTH, BONES stuff like that. 
> 
> Also I hadn't realized that I dressed every vulcan except spock in metallic fabrics or togas. BAHAHAHA


	20. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok guys, its finished. Sorry it too long, but I was really anxious about wrapping this up the right way, which I hope it did.
> 
> (BTW: LDL: the bad cholesterol.)

 

                20 Epilogue

 

Two weeks earlier:

_“Can I speak with you?” Jim begins, in the doorway of the Vulcan’s workspace. He succumbs to his urge to stand obscured in the shadow of the archway, feeling intrusive and vulnerable under the pretext of his visit._

_The threat of rejection still ranks high on his list of worst possible scenarios._

_Try as he might, he can’t logic the anxiety he feels away, can’t stop the spasms in his intestines or the way his heart palpates under his sternum. What he is about to ask goes beyond any prior relationship they have, it’s asking the man-Vulcan before him to put a hold on his life for essentially a what if. They don’t know that the Enterprise won’t be blown out of the sky when it enters orbit, they don’t know that the governments won’t quarantine them. There are no certainties, except uncertainty. It’s a paradox and no matter the calculations there is always another possible outcome, a snowballs chance, and their best laid plans could be laid to waste by a confounding factor, especially with Jim Kirk thrown into the mix._

_Jim knows from experience, this is his life after all, he could write a best seller, he could have movies._

_The Vulcan looks up from his workspace and replies, “Naturally.”_

_Jim wants to turn off all the lights so that he can ask this in the dark, but he’s not a coward, he won’t be afraid of his fears. He takes several decisive steps, resolve growing each time his foot meets the floor._

_“Be my copilot,” he expels in a rush of air. That was ok, it wasn’t- he could have sounded more confident._

_He gets not response other than a shocked expression from the normally stoic face._

_“I want you to come with me.” He says, and his voice doesn’t even waver. And really, he can’t be any more direct that that._

_Spock drops his test tube._

_Jim watches the glass shatter on the floor and feels a heavy weight settle in his stomach. But, it doesn’t last for long because a second later Spock is blurting, “Yes!”_

_Jim’s lip quivers. “Really?”_

_“I had hoped you would ask.”_

 

\-------------------------o----------------------

 

For a fortnight the UNAD had been receiving encrypted messages from an otherwise unexplored location of space. The messages appeared to be in some language or code that they had yet to decipher, yet fragments of English sporadically broke through several of them. The fragments were not enough to indicate their purpose, select few key words such as date and times were intelligible but nothing else. There was much discussion and arguing over their source, perhaps a glitch from Mars colony, a prank on the part of another base, even aliens were discussed, albeit briefly.

Naturally the UNAD had hoped that in reaching further into space contact would be made with alien cultures, earth had dreamed and theorized over their possible existence for centuries but nothing, no evidence save messages that were skeptical _at best_ could be factored in as any sort of evidence.

Why should these be any different?

Though, the oddest thing was that the messages, those with fragments that were understandable, kept repeating the same thing over and over- _Cadet Kirk’s serial number._

 

\---------------------o-----------------------

Jim and Spock walked into the VSA the morning of the launch, each with a small duffel of belongings hoisted over their shoulders. Spock felt like he was merely going on a vacation, despite his being on trips of such nature before. He surmised it was not the mission itself that made his situation feel unreal, but the presence of Jim. Truthfully, when Spock had made calculations for his future, he had never envisioned having something, _someone_ so precious to account for.

“Cadet Kirk! Ambassador Spock!”

Spock’s head tilted in the direction of the shouting voice. He would not admit it, save to anyone but Jim, but hearing himself addressed as Ambassador, _as if her were his father_ , unnerved him. 

Vorik bustled over to them, carrying a mid-sized basket and a small scroll in the other.

Jim’s face convulsed in the way it did when he was trying to conceal his mirth. “I think it’s a little too late for a picnic Vorik.”

“Ambassador Spock is my father, I insist that you continue to refer to me as Spock, as you have always done,” Spock interjected.

Vorik looked at him but gave no indication of accepting Spock’s request. His bangs fluttered around his face, “What is a picnic?”

Spock sighed.

Vorik seemed to remember himself and thrust the basket forward at Jim. “This came for you at 0500 marked urgent.”

Jim raised an eyebrow in a fashion that truly made Spock proud. He reached out for the basket but Spock took hold of it instead. He had an inclination of who the parcel was from.

He only had to note the characteristic penmanship on the address label to know it was from his brother.

 

He sighed again and plucked the scroll from Vorik’s grasp.

 

Sybok was regretful that he could not be present to wish Jim Kirk a safe journey. In his stead he had sent a gift basket of various fruits and Tuber root.

Spock took one look at the card and the inscription inlaid therein and huffed.

 

Jim peered over his shoulder and tried to read the inscription. “Spock, is that some Vulcan version of a Hallmark greeting card?” His breath puffed over his shoulder.

 

“Jim,” he said, somewhat with exasperation, and pocketed the card, “I do not understand your reference.”

 

 

Regardless, whatever message Sybok inscripted went right over Jim’s head.

\-------------------------o-----------------

 

“Thrusters on full…..Captain.” Spock said, and Jim didn’t have to see his face to know it was with a smirk.

“I like the sound of that,” Jim quipped. His stomach gave a flip flop and he was really glad he hadn’t eaten that morning. The blue light on the interior of the ship lit up the console as he finished making adjustments. Ok, he could do this, deep breath in and out.

 

“Jim?”

 

“I’m good Spock,” his face split wide with a grin. “You know, we should have packed you a winter coat, your gunna freeze to death on Earth.”

 

Spock looked at him. “An over exaggeration I am sure.”

 

Jim narrowed his eyes, the image on the vid screen adjusted as the ship moved into position. Jim took a parting look at the neatly arranged grey structures of Shikhar and the vast desert beyond it, blanketed in  the orange hue of Vulcan, and decided he wouldn’t miss it.

 

Yeah, not when he was taking the best part with him.

He glanced quickly at Spock, hoping that the Vulcan hadn’t picked up on that _distressingly_ corny thought. Spock busied himself with going over the coordinates for the 80’th time. Nope. Safe.

 

“ _Are you ready?”_ His voice was soft, a whisper in the cabin.

Jim’s finger hovered over the red button.

 

Spock kept his eyes focused ahead, focused on _Vulcan_. There was a minute shift in his gaze, “ _Yes_.”

 

When Spock was done with his silent goodbyes, Jim didn’t waste any time. As he pushed the button he wasn’t thinking about peace talks and debriefings or navigation. He was imagining the three of them, him, Bones and Spock. He pictured it clearly,  Spock’s panicked expression at seeing the ocean for the first time, Spock trying to understand Bones’ southern drawl- Bones indignant expression when Jim shoved his tongue down Spock’s throat, the Vulcan looking perplexed as Bones reamed him a new one, Spock looking stupid in a Santa costume on Christmas, no- _an elf costume_ -

 

The warp core initiated.

 

There was a telltale vibration, barely perceptible, when the vid screen started to blur-

 

 

 

 

 

“Full speed ahead!”

 

 

 

She warped.

\-----------o--------------------o-------

 

1600 Western time a craft reportedly entered Earth space.

The craft rocketed through the atmosphere, dodging 99.8% of all the debris and satellites encircling the planet. The personnel at the base were astounded. Admiral Komack spilled his coffee on his freshly pressed uniform when he heard the news.

It was _scalding_.

The craft landed, roughly, coming to a skidding halt a mile from the base, on the sandy shore of the harbor. She cleaved a furrow fifteen feet wide in the sand.

Troops were assembled even as she dropped, plummeting through the sky.

The craft had landed even as a deployment of men and women in vehicles headed in its direction. The UNAD identified the craft upon further inspection of the video feed as a strange mutation of the Enterprise prototype, lost nine months prior during its failed warp attempt.

News spread like wildfire, was it the lost Cadet? Had the ship been commandeered? Where had it come from, how were improvements made _in space_?

 

Orders were as followed: Contain the situation.

 

\--------o--------------

 

The hull opened with a resounding hiss and the fluorescent blue light fell away to beautiful clear sky. Jim took in a lungful of the salty sea breeze and leapt from the ship, landing somewhat clumsily on his feet.

 

But at least he stuck the landing.

 

Seagulls squawked overhead, and one of them took a shit as it flew past. Jim kicked excitedly at the sand, which, compared to Vulcan sand, was _much_ nicer, in a nostalgic way.

 

“Jim, I do not-“ Spock gritted out, clutching at the side of the hull, still inside the ship. He appeared more _green_ than necessary.

 

“Spock are you motion sick?” Jim sputtered.

 

The Vulcan brought his fingers tentatively to his brow, “I seem to be having difficulty adjusting to our landing.”

 

“Well hurry up and puke and get down here! We’re burning daylight.” Jim snapped then turned and took a few paces, waving his hand vaguely. Any minute now the place would be crawling with commandos and trucks and he wanted a moment with Spock before all hell broke loose.

 

Spock’s gaze darkened, but he climbed expertly down to the beach, making to follow after Jim. He took four steps before he became aware of a resounding crashing. Of course, they had landed on a shoreline, how had he forgotten? He turned and took in the ocean for the first time.

 

It was…somehow _more_ than he had predicted.

 

Just as Spock turned to take in the ocean, feet moving of their own accord, a deployment of trucks reached the shoreline.

 

“Oh Crap,” Jim sighed. And now, of all times, he became suddenly aware of a desperate need to pee.

 

“Hey Spock,” he turned, calling for his Vulcan, who stood mesmerized.

 

No response.

 

Jim frowned and rolled his eyes, placing on hand on his hip and running the other through his hair. _Well,_ this was going to be interesting.

As the men started their advance upon them Jim positioned himself, his dog tags on display and waited patiently for their approach. He hoped they wouldn’t overreact about Spock.

 

Just as he was surrounded by troops a familiar figure stepped out from the throngs of men. “Jim,” Pike closed in and clapped him on the back, “I thought we’d lost you,” he said laughing and caught Jim in a quick hug.

 

Jim grinned, “I’m too hard to kill.”

 

Admiral Pike smirked and then glanced at Spock. He crossed his arms and nodded towards the Vulcan, “And who’s your friend?” he asked, tone clipped.

 

Jim shrugged. “Exactly that. And an Ambassador to Vulcan.”

 

“Vulcan?

 

“Aliens.”

 

Pike raised his eyebrows.

He then waved his hand, signaling for the troops to back off. “Set up a parameter, the Cadet and the Ambassador…” he looked to Jim for a name.

 

“Spock.”

“-Ambassador Spock are non hostile,” he finished. Pike clapped Jim on the shoulder once more, squeezing once affectionately. “We’ll catch up properly when the debriefing is over with,” he said with a small smile, eyes crinkling. He waved his hand again and moved off, barking orders as he went.

 

Just then a rising shouting come through the throngs of people, familiar in a way that Jim couldn’t quite place. “ _Goddamit, get yer ass outta my way, move it, I oughtta tan your hide! Jim, you just wait till I get a hold of you-“_

His eyes darted franticly; he had to restrain himself from pushing through the troops towards that familiar drawl.

 

Bones elbowed his way past the last of the men, medical bag wielded menacingly in one hand, scanner brandished just as threateningly in the other.

 

Jim couldn’t even speak he was so fucking happy to see him.

 

Bones look as adorable as ever, one vein standing out angrily on his neck from how infuriated he was; hair ruffled, red faced, lip raised in a snarl because he was trying to look threatening. It made Jim’s heart warm.

Bones stuffed the scanner in his face, right under his eye, and a subsequent series of whirring clicks indicated he was being examined. “Goddamit Jim you crazy sun of a bitch, I outta throttle you-“ Bones shouted.

And that was enough for Jim, the next moment he was surging foreword, enveloping Bones in a crushing hug. His friend was an emotional _mess_ and pulled back blinking, trying to hide his tears behind the back of his hand, “got something in my goddamed eye…” he excused.

Jim rubbed forlornly at his now throbbing arms. _When had Bones gotten jacked?_

 

“And you-“ Bones pointed violently, and Spock’s head swiveled around in alarm. “You hobgoblin-” he  shouted, fist clenched and waving. Bones shoved Jim out of the way and marched over to Spock, scanner again brandished before him. “Who the Sam-Hill are you?!” He shoved the scanner in the Vulcan’s face.

 

Spock appeared quite offended. “Your agitation is unnecessary-“ he started, bangs drawn tight over his brow in an expression of annoyance.

 

Jim jogged over, hands raised in a placating manner, “hey Bones he’s my friend he’s great-“

 

“Jim,” Spock said tersely, “I am _more_ than your friend.”

 

Jim rolled his eyes.

 

Bones continued his tirade. “Listen here you green blooded hobgoblin! I’ll be as agitated as I want to be!”

 

Spock folded his hands behind his back.

 

 _Oh great,_ Jim thought _, they’re arguing like an old married couple._

 

The scanner began to shake in Bones’ grasp so Jim gently took it from his hands. “I outta, I outta-“ And for once in his life Bones seemed to be out of threats and creative slurs. The vein on his neck stopped pulsating as his anger visibly drained out of him  “You sun of a bitch,” he sputtered and pursed his lips, “You brought my Jimmy back!” Bones cried, grabbing onto Jim.

Jim’s eyes bugged out when his friend latched onto him again, his ribs were going to _ache_ later but he didn’t care, he wasn’t going to complain about _anything_ Bones did _ever_ again. He grinned sheepishly at Spock; this emotional reaction wasn’t really matching up to the surly exterior he had previously described.

But really it just proved that beneath all that sarcasm and liquor Leonard Mccoy was _a big softie_.

 

“There there,” Jim cooed, rubbing Bones between the shoulders.

 

Spock’s eyebrow moved up and down but then he seemed to remember that there was an _ocean_ behind him and his head swiveled around again and his torso follow suit and once again his back was facing Jim and his front was well… _gaping_ at the ocean.

 

Admittedly, it _was_ a lot of water.

 

 

“Admiral this wessel is astounding!” A voice cried from inside the Enterprise, and dammit when had Chekov crawled inside his ship?

 

Jim wanted to go over and reprimand him, to shout at him _not_ to touch _anything_ but Bones was hanging onto him _like a barnacle_.

 

“Uhg!”

 

 “THERE WAS NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT SHIP LADDIE, LET ME AT THE WARP CORE, I’LL BET HER CIRCUITS ARE ALL ASS BACKWARDS, BLASTED FOREIGNERS MESSING WITH GOOD WORK!”

 

Jim shut his mouth. Great, now Engineer Scotty was going to be crawling around, tearing out his ships _intestines_ , poor beautiful baby.

 

 

“OH! DID YOU GET A LOOK AT THESE WARP COILS? I’VE NEVER SEEN THE LIKES. SHE’S ONE WELL ENDOWED LADY!”

 

 

“This is my life now,” He droned. _Me and my own weird little family._ He smirked to himself and seeing that he was now free from Bones’ crushing grasp, began walking over to the ship, intent on interrupting whatever dismantling Scotty was conducting.

 

Bones followed blindly after him, eyes glued to his scanner’s readouts. “Oh, Jim your LDL is the lowest I’ve ever seen it!”

 

Jim unzipped his flightsuit and tied it off at his waist. “Well Spock’s been having me eat healthy.”

 

Bones raised his eyebrow and paused in his scans. “Well I’ll be a monkey’s uncle, that pointed Devil can’t be that bad after all.”

 

 

 

 End.


End file.
